The Wolf and the Stag
by Melted Flames
Summary: A collection of one-shots following each episode of the 8th season, starting with 8.2.
1. Chapter 1 - Warm

**Warm**

Taking place directly after 8.2

Although a fire crackled softly in its hearth mere feet away, Arya felt no warmth. She was lying on a makeshift bed of grain sacks within the armory with Gendry deeply sleeping to her left.

None of this felt real. Arya couldn't breathe deeply, she couldn't even blink. For the first time in years she felt truly afraid. When was the last time she had experienced fear like this? The Waif's pursuit, perhaps, when she ran through the streets of Braavos for her life, her hands desperately trying to keep her blood within her body? No, that had been pure survival. This was different. This was something worse - a deep fear lingering in her gut, bubbling up into her lungs and eyes until she could think of nothing but Winterfell overrun by the dead. She tried to rest, but her lids closed to reveal images of corpses attacking Bran, ripping apart her sister, and gutting Gendry. It would be mere hours now until her fears became reality and deep inside some part of her knew she wasn't ready.

_Warriors need sleep too_, she tried to tell herself. It was hopeless.

Arya turned her head to her left and studied the man asleep beside her. _Only a man would be stupid enough to be able to sleep now_, she thought enviously as she watched his chest move rhythmically in deep breaths. She hated his hair like this. It had looked so much better when they were on the Kingsroad and he needed to constantly brush it out of his eyes. His facial hair had been more to her liking back then, too. He looked like a man now, a grown man. _That's what we are_, she supposed, _grown adults ready for the end_. She knew she had changed too - though he likely hadn't noticed until she was naked in front of him. Arya's steel eyes continued following his body down his muscular chest to where it was covered by the cloak he had configured into a blanket. She knew what was below it - his well-built arms and calloused hands, one of which was still embracing her own. Arya had always liked those parts, even when the person they were connected to was mocking her all those years ago; she thought back to how she had watched his chest and forearms back in Harenhall. She had memorized the rest of him now as well. Impressive abs, strong legs, and a new part of him she hadn't seen until tonight…

It hadn't been the way she expected, though she supposed she hadn't truly known what to expect at all. The first time was a blur - she couldn't determine when the kissing had turned into sex, of what moment she should qualify as her official transformation into womanhood. The notion of virginity was foolish to her anyhow. A lifetime of riding horses and fighting meant there had been no blood and hardly any pain beyond the accommodation of his size within her. From there it had been a rush of hands and kisses, of moans and breaths and unexpected shocks of pleasure. She didn't care that she hadn't climaxed the first time. It was just all so satisfying.

Gendry had collapsed beside her when he finished, chuckling in a way even her training with the faceless men hadn't prepared her for. She thought now of that moment: he smiled as he slowly came back to life and touched her face with such a tenderness she almost felt as if she were a maiden in one of Sansa's stupid songs. Gendry rearranged the sacks they were lying on to be flatter, wiped his face with a cloth from his cloak, and returned to her. His eyes studied her like she was a new weapon he had never seen before; she didn't like the discomfort she felt then as he stared. Could he see the lives she had taken - the Freys, the Waif, Littlefinger, Polliver? If he could, he gave no indication as he sat down beside her.

His fingers had slowly traced over her scars on her side, the same places he had stopped to stare at as she undressed. Arya felt that knot in her stomach again then. She went to move his touch away and he turned his palm upwards to grab her hand, weaving his fingers between hers. He laid back for a moment before finally speaking.

"Are you going to tell me about them?"

Arya didn't need to ask what he meant. She knew she wouldn't answer. Perhaps one day, if they did this again, if they made it out of this battle and explored one another for a second time, she might be able to explain. She turned towards him but didn't meet his gaze, instead staring at a random spot on the stone wall until he sighed and touched her hair for a moment.

As it happened, she didn't need to wait until after the battle to experience sex again. It seemed like only minutes had passed before Gendry pulled her back down to him and kissed her. Their first kisses had been awkward at first, but these were different. Sex is like fighting, Arya found herself thinking as she noticed the natural adjustments she made to meet his pace and mood. The first time had been aggressive and passionate, like the jabs and swings of Westerosi fighting. If their first round was a knight's awkward combat, the second was a water dance. His kisses were deeper and more passionate, slower and open mouthed so their tongues could exchange steps. His hands and mouth found parts of her he hadn't before, delightful parts that made her understand why people gave up so much for this. There was no laughter the second time, only raw need and something else that she couldn't explain. This time she finished before him, fascinated and undone by the way the pleasure had built up before spreading out to the most wonderful feeling she had ever known. He seemed driven then, and repeated the exact same angles and strokes until they were both collapsing into each other at once. A mess of kisses, sweat, teeth, and mumbled words, they laid together as one until Gendry finally rolled to the side without a word. His hand found hers as sleep quickly took him.

... 

Arya woke with a start. She must have drifted to sleep at some point, but Gendry's sudden touch had startled her. She nearly elbowed him and leapt from the bed, but something about his scent and the way it felt to be held calmed her. It was still late at night and she guessed they had a few hours until dawn. Gendry seemed to still be asleep as he pulled her closer to him. For a horrible second, she wondered if he knew it was her. Was he imagining one of those three women from King's Landing? She pushed the thought from her mind and tried to replay their sex over again. His breathing changed slightly and she briefly thought he was waking up, but he soon let out a shaky breath and went back to his normal respiration. Arya closed her eyes and tried to embrace the moment. _The dead will be here soon enough_, she reasoned.

Gendry felt warm against her back; his embrace felt comforting beyond the temperature, it conjured something else she wasn't ready to feel yet. Arya wrapped her hand around his arm and pushed back against him. She needed to be closer. Eyes still shut, she breathed as deeply as she could and tried to ignore the fear reappearing in her gut. Gendry was truly waking up now. He moaned softly as he pulled her against his torso and lightly kissed her shoulder. Arya wasn't sure how to face him - she had acted so brashly last night, would he feel differently about it now? She chose to lie still instead as she submerged herself into the strange, dull bliss that radiated from their bodies touching. Some cowardly part of her hoped the dead never came, that she could stay like this with Gendry forever. She could imagine them finding happiness right there in that armory for the rest of their days; Jon's dragon queen could have the Iron Throne, Sansa could rule the North or the Vale or whatever she wanted, Bran could have his visions out by the Weirwood tree, all Arya needed was these wheat sacks and Gendry. She sighed and pressed herself closer to him again as she reveled in sex-drunk warmth until three horn blasts woke them from their paradise.


	2. Chapter 2 - Survive

Chapter 2 - Survival

_Fuck_.

The night was freezing and pitch black, a heavy coat of fear washing over everything in sight. Gendry was leaving the latrines for the third time in the past hour and he didn't think he could feel any less prepared for what was to come. As he rinsed his hands in a nearby bucket and grabbed his mace, he felt a massive hand pull his collar back.

"Stop hiding back here and get in position," a gruff voice said. The Hound shoved him ahead. "There'll be plenty of time to shit when you die."

Gendry took a deep breath and walked forward. Davos had explained the plan after bringing a large bowl of soup and bread to him at the forge the afternoon before, but he still didn't fully understand how anyone expected them to win. Why had they put him in the frontlines? He paused as he took in the sheer scope of the army in front of him - thousands of Unsullied, Wildlings, and Northmen stood in a meticulous formation. He knew the logistics decently well - the Dothraki would bring their equestrian might first, causing the first massive wave of damage, then the rest of them could begin their charge. Still, Gendry couldn't figure out how their thirty-to-fifty-thousand men were supposed to be a match for the army of the dead.

"Oh for fuck's sake," the Hound said as he pushed in front of him to their positions between Tormund and the final men of the Night's Watch. Gendry followed quickly, studying the armies to his left.

"You're still here?" Tormund asked him, his massive blue eyes wide with feigned surprise. Gendry had no response. He tried to focus on his breaths - _In, out, in, out_, he commanded himself - but felt his body shiver nonetheless. "Walking, fighting, and fucking," Tormund reminisced with a laugh, "too bad we can't be fucking instead."

Too bad, indeed. At least he _had_ been fucking relatively recently. That certainly hadn't been on Gendry's pre-battle plan, though it was a welcome addition. For a moment, he thought back to the hours before the battle, the warmth and surprise of laying with Arya, the hope that had simmered in his chest as he found her hand and fell asleep beside her. Now that was gone, replaced with a crushing knowledge of how short his life would really be.

A commotion occurred suddenly and all around them the dragonglass arakhs he had suffered over lit aflame. He didn't understand how or what was going on, but he was glad to at least be able to see better. Maybe it was best he didn't ask questions about fire magic, especially considering his one interaction with it in Dragonstone.

The Dothraki were screaming now. War whoops and excited cheers rang out among their ranks as the rest of the battlefield watched on in silence.

In seconds, they were off. They were like nothing Gendry had ever seen before, confident and full of excitement as they galloped into the darkness. But as quickly as they had rode out, their flaming swords were snuffed out. The battlefield was dark and silent again.

Gendry inhaled sharply as heard horses galloping towards them; he was certain this was the moment. He pictured the White Walker he had seen North of the wall - dozens of them coming towards him at a breakneck speed armed with ice weapons all aimed at his head and heart. He was wrong. Most of the horses were riderless, though he thought he could make out Jorah, a few Dothraki, and Jon's direwolf returning to the unsullied to the West.

Daenerys' commander shouted something in a language Gendry didn't recognize. He had stopped by the forge a few times in the past week to check on his men's weapons. Gendry liked him and his quiet but knowledgeable air. Now he was commanding his troops forward to be a line of defense against the creatures that had just wiped out twenty-thousand Dothraki like they were unarmed children.

He could hear it now, this wave of death coming for them. His heart raced and he wondered if there was anything left in his gut to throw up or shit out. The noise was terrible - a gnashing and snarling, snapping and clawing like rabid animals and demons.

They were here.

Gendry smashed in front of him with his mace, not even aiming at anything in particular. He swung as far as his arm could reach, then up and down in no discernible pattern. Fuck. Something grabbed his leg and he smashed it with the dragonglass-spiked tip. He couldn't see anything real, just a massive wall of reanimated corpses. Their faces were terrifying: sunken ice-blue eyes, missing jaws, exposed ribs, and severed limbs. He swung again and again, ignoring the screams around him and hoping he hit the dead and not one of their own.

Suddenly fire burned through the sky and destroyed the bodies charging towards them. The Dragon Queen had arrived.

Gendry breathed in but refused to look around him.

"Fall back!" He didn't need to be told twice. He turned on his heel and sprinted over the trench bridge to the castle gate. The Hound and Tormund were visible in his periphery - they were okay. Flaming arrows rained down around them, but he didn't dare look up to see if Arya was among the archers.

They reached a stairwell and Gendry shoved past the men walking up slowly to get to his position on the wall. He could see from here, at least. Why weren't the trenches lit?

Something was wrong. The dragon had ascended above the clouds again and the hoard of the dead was approaching the trench with no barrier. He watched in horror as living corpses tackled and destroyed torchbearers.

A series of burning arrows shot from the same section of the wall stuck into the wood, but they weren't enough. He followed their trajectory backwards to see that his suspicion was correct - Arya had fired them effortlessly. Despite the absolute terror in his gut, Gendry felt his lips part and move upwards at the sight of it.

That pride was cut short by a less welcome figure. The Unsullied brought her forward, a woman he could instantly recognize even without seeing her face. The Red Woman was here. For a moment, Gendry felt he was back in that room in Dragonstone, tied to a bed as leeches were being put onto his erect manhood and chest. Had Davos not saved him, he surely would have been burned alive within the day. Seeing her in front of him now sent chills down his spine.

Her magic seemed to work, and the trench was finally aflame. Gendry knew he should be grateful that she had just saved them, but he couldn't help but feel contempt rise up upon seeing her face.

If she knew he was there, she gave no indication. But she did notice someone - her eyes rose up and stopped on someone on the North rampart. _Arya_. Somehow Gendry was more angry now than he had been before. What did this witch want with Arya? He couldn't help but wonder if their final hours together had something to do with it. Should he not have told her the truth? Was the witch seeing something that had not yet come to pass? Gendry didn't like any of the scenarios his mind conjured. The Red Woman would not get near Arya, he would be sure of that.

"Man the walls!" The command tore Gendry out of his mind's wanderings. The undead were throwing themselves into the flames to bridge the way for their comrades. He watched as they ran to the walls and leapt up. The dead did not care about what would happen to their bodies or their families or the ones they loved; they smashed themselves into the rampart's base, then climbed their way up a wall of writhing bodies all intent on ending the lives of those protecting it. Gendry gripped his mace tightly as he watched their ranks rise.

Finally they reached him and he swung. His mace was better suited for this than the swords clamoring against the rock. Gendry swung a second, a third, a twentieth time. The dead just kept coming. He tried to ignore the terrified cries of those being pulled down the eighty foot drop only to be torn apart below; he tuned out the screams of those whose weapons didn't connect hard enough or the gurgles of men being skewered by corpses who had gotten over.

After what felt like an hour but may have been mere minutes, Gendry bellowed in frustration. He needed to pause to breathe and wipe the blood and sweat from his eyes, but he couldn't. If he missed a single swing he risked joining the still bodies lying all around them. He felt tears well up in his eyes like an errant child, but blinked them away with the next smash of his mace. The dead were coming from all sides now, and he felt himself losing hope.

Suddenly a voice he knew too well yelled out in fear. His head snapped to a nearby roof; Arya was sliding to a window, a crowd of wights all coming for her. Why was she alone? How had she even gotten there? It had to be at least five meters below and away from the nearest structure. He tried to think of how he might get to her but had no idea what parts of the castle lead to the window.

A dragonglass sword came perilously close to his throat as Tormund killed a body so close that it smashed into Gendry as it fell. The Wildling raised his orange brows in warning. "It's just you out here now," he said while cutting down incoming attackers. "Just you, that thing, and them" he gestured to the dragonglass mace and the sea of undead soldiers. Gendry swallowed hard and nodded. Despite the warning, he glanced back at the roof. Arya was gone. He tried to push the question of where she had gone - _Did she fall? Did she get inside? Are more waiting for her?_ \- from his brain as he swung his mace at the hands, swords, and gnashing teeth coming for him from every direction.

Soon the rampart was a lost cause. He and Tormund sliced and smashed their way to the courtyard, where they were soon surrounded. Sers Jaime and Brienne were close behind them, their squire following. Gendry saw them pressed against a wall and was unexpectedly glad to be in the open. He swung again, knocking off the first of barrage of terrifying corpses, then crashed the mace upon the next attacker. The dead kept coming, and soon he found himself standing atop their discarded bodies. Most of the Northern men who had been fighting alongside them had fallen, they were down to a few dozen at best, all of whom tried to keep the dead from advancing.

At least an hour passed and Gendry's arms were burning so badly he could barely lift his mace. He tried to swing drawing from his legs, but was knocked off balance among the shifting pile of corpses. Tormund grabbed him by the front of his gambeson; he was back to swinging. They were starting to make progress, the wights coming for them were more of a trickling stream than a gushing river. He tried to focus on his breaths as he smashed and reached out to every angle.

Just as soon as he had processed the decrease in attackers, something changed. Gendry felt a chill run over his whole body, like someone had dumped ice water upon him and left him exposed to wind. The bodies of their slain comrades began to twitch.

No… No this couldn't be happening. The corpses of Unsullied, Wildlings, and Knights of the Vale began opening their eyes - eyes that now shone a chilling shade of blue. Some part of him was considering smashing his mace upon his own head now to end it before it began.

Tormund clapped a large hand onto his shoulder. "Look at me!" He roared, "we're getting out of this. You're not dying here today," Gendry wondered if his panic had been more obvious than he'd thought. He kept breathing as Tormund shouted into his face, "Look at all these fuckers we killed. We'll just do it again," But, that wasn't possible. Gendry knew that. "And when we get out of here, we take the first women we see and we show them just how alive we are." Tormund was grinning and briefly looked over his shoulder towards the three fighters against the wall. Only he would find humor in a time like this.

Gendry nodded shakily. The rising dead were up and coming towards them again. He swung his mace and tried to ignore the fact the man whose skull it cracked had joked with him as he picked up his dragon glass spear the day before. He and Tormund were back-to-back now, smashing and stabbing at all sides. The pile below them grew larger as they stepped up with each fallen body.

A dragon roared behind him, but he didn't dare look to see if it was one of theirs or if it belong to the Night King.

He thought of Tormund's words: _We show them just how alive we are._ It was tempting, he couldn't lie. His mind retreated into a repeating projection of his night before while he brought the mace down again and again. He would do it another time, he would find Arya and show her what it could really be like to be with him. Flashes of the warmth of her body against his, the feeling of all the blood rushing from his head to below his belt, the sounds she had made against his throat - suddenly the burning in his back and arms wasn't so bad. He remembered the sensation of her skin under and over his, the way she had tasted against his lips… Tormund was right, they were getting out of this. He had to live.

Gendry kept swinging. He spotted Grey Worm near the bottom of their pile, stabbing through multiple wights at once with his spear and charging his shield into others. He and Tormund were at least eight feet high now, and the pile kept growing. He thought again of Arya - where was she now? Was she somewhere in the castle? Had she gotten away from these monsters? He tried not to think about how unlikely it was that she had. Arya could hold her own, she always had. Those scars on her stomach and side made him think she may have handled worse than any of this, if such a thing existed.

A wight grabbed his arm and nearly sliced through the leather over his shoulder. He shouted as he slammed his weapon into its face. Distraction was dangerous; he'd need to save those thoughts until after… if there was an after.

A spear pierced Tormund's arm by his side. The large man yanked it out and turned it around, driving it through the jaw of the risen Unsullied that had gotten to him. Gendry wasn't sure when he had gotten so far away from the Wildling - hadn't they been back to back minutes ago? Now they had a meter between them, the pile below them higher than ever.

This wasn't sustainable; for every wight they took down, five more poured through the castle gates. They had all taken some hits and it would only take one or two more mistakes to end it. Gendry stepped towards Tormund with his next swing, trying to close their gap and get some coverage behind them both.

And then suddenly the dead fell. Not just the one he had hit, but all of them. They fell at once, rippling out as if someone had thrown a stone into still water. It wouldn't be possible if he hadn't seen the same thing happen with a smaller group of wights on their exhibition North of the wall. Jon had done it; he had killed the Night King.

The moment reality set in, Gendry collapsed. He sat in a heap atop the mountain of bodies in disbelief. Slowly, the world came back to him.  
The stench hit him first - a putrid, thick wall of blood, shit, and rot. He retched but nothing come up.

Next was the pain. His arms and legs felt utterly destroyed, his back was a mess of burning knots. His clothes stuck to him and wouldn't shift. Blood covered his gambeson and face, though he was fairly certain it wasn't his own.

Third came sound and sight. After hours of red and brown blurs, other colors slowly emerged. Gendry's tunnel vision subsided and the courtyard was reborn before him. Voices rang out as people asked one another what was going on. He had not the voice to tell them. Tormund's boots appeared before him and he painfully craned his neck up in his direction. For once, the Wildling said nothing. He offered a hand to Gendry and pulled him up before kicking corpses out of his way as he descended their hill. Gendry followed silently.

The rest of the courtyard was in a state of chaos - thousands of bodies laid scattered about. Blood and who knew what else coated the ground as far as the eye could see. Slowly, people began to process the scope of their losses. Soldiers sobbed as their friends succumbed to their wounds. Gendry watched as Grey Worm sprinted into the castle towards the crypts. He had seen him with Daenerys' translator and had no doubts that was whom he sought out now. For an absurd second, Gendry wished he had someone to run to and collapse into, a lover to assure he was alright, a woman to hold close as he sobbed about the things worth living for. Arya wasn't that woman. Hells, he didn't even know if she remembered he existed after a battle like this. He was sure he'd see her cockily strut out any minute now, twirling the weapon he had made her without a scratch on her. Gendry had been afraid the entire battle; he had been ready for death to take him and terrified of the hoard that kept coming, but not Arya. Arya wasn't scared of anything.

Only, she _had_ been scared. Fear had flashed across her face for a moment as she reached for her new weapon before leaving the armory on their way to the battle. She thought he wasn't looking, but he'd seen it clearly for that one instant. As quickly as it manifested, it was replaced by a mask of neutrality, but it had been there for a single breath.

He scanned the warriors remaining, but she was not among them. Gendry took another breath and reminded himself Arya Stark was not someone who would be struck down by an undead soldier. A Wildling woman who had fought in their initial formation approached him with a bucket of water and a wet cloth. He gladly took it and wiped his face, afraid to look at the rags after they had removed the grime and blood.

Another look around the courtyard. Still no Arya. An anxious ache was starting to build in his stomach now. Where was she? Those who couldn't fight and had stayed in the crypts emerged, many covered in blood. Sansa Stark led them out. Her face was even as she surveyed the damage and looked for her family. Gendry overheard her as she approached Brienne and asked about her siblings; his heart beat faster when the knight confirmed she hadn't seen any of them.

Gendry walked into the halls, where Davos nodded at him with a soft smile. "I knew you'd make it," he said.

He smiled back and tried to ignore the fact he knew his eyes didn't match his mouth. "Have you seen -" he didn't get a chance to finish the question. Davos looked at him with remorse. "Lad, if you're looking for someone you'd better stop now. After a battle like this you're best off waiting til they seek you out. If they're alive, they will." Gendry's eyes focused on something vague on the wall and he nodded tiredly as Davos turned to pass a goblet of water to a nearby child.

He shouldn't let himself worry about her. If there was one person in this entire realm who didn't need people worrying about them, it was Arya. He knew he should go bathe and rinse his clothes; he'd benefit from seeing a medic about the gash in his leg and getting a few hours of sleep.

He trudged towards the forge to the small room he had been sleeping in. There was an empty tub, but he lacked the patience to fill it. Instead, he grabbed a few buckets of water from the forges - they had to be cleaner than the blood and gore stuck to him - and stripped down. The leathers and chainmail stuck to his skin and tugged his hair painfully, but the liquid didn't even feel cold as it ran over his skin. He wondered if he'd regain full sensation when he had a chance to rest.

For all of three seconds, he laid down upon his cot. His body ached and his eyes could barely stay open, but Gendry couldn't sleep without knowing what had happened to Arya. He cursed himself for not having something else to wear as he put back on his blood-crusted leathers and walked out of the empty forge.

When he returned to the courtyard, Tormund was overzealously grinning at Jon, the blood of battle still splattered across his face. Jon did not look like a man who had just defeated death itself - his clothing was singed and torn, and he seemed exhausted.  
Gendry scanned the courtyard again. Where was she? The dead were beginning to be collected now and stacked by main allegiance. Surely if Arya was among them he'd see her tiny body above the others; they wouldn't let her be forgotten below a thousand random lowborn men.

He sighed and turned the corner, letting his feet carry him through the muck to no destination in particular. He couldn't stand around waiting to find out what had happened to her forever.

Gendry turned around a corner of the castle he wasn't familiar with. Bran Stark was sitting in his polished wooden chair, speaking quietly to someone Gendry didn't know. She was behind him. Of course she was here.

Gendry let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding as he took her in. She looked worse than he felt - dark, crusted blood was dried along her forehead and right cheek and matted in her wild, sweat-drenched hair. A shocking bruise was forming surrounding the cut and snaking down, darkening around her right eye. She looked as empty as Jon had while she gazed forward.  
Suddenly the lust-driven thoughts that had kept him swinging his mace during battle seemed perverse. He wanted to run to Arya, to wrap his arms around her and press her face to his chest to make her rest upon him until she was healed and the world seemed a little less likely to hurt her again.

Gendry looked her over a second time, unable to interrupt her brother's conversation. Just as he was about to turn and walk back to who knew where, Arya turned and saw him. Her brows softened and a deep relief seemed to radiate from her eyes as her shoulders released slightly. So she had worried about him, after all. He started walking towards her to say something, anything, that might lead to the two of them having a moment in private.

"We need your help, Gendry," a northern-accented voice said. He turned to see a fellow smith who immediately rambled on about needing to inventory and repurpose the weapons of the fallen soldiers. Gendry turned his head to see Arya again, perhaps to gesture that he'd be right there, but her back was to him as she pushed Bran in the opposite direction.

Sighing, he followed the smith back to the forge.

... 

Later that afternoon, when the dead had been as accounted for as best they could manage with tens of thousands of corpses and the cooks had been prepared to ready a feast for the survivors, Winterfell stood still.

Gendry came to pay his respects shortly before they lit the pyres. Many of those who had fallen had worked alongside him in Dragonstone to mine dragonglass or in the forge to prepare the weapons. Others had fought beside him on the vanguard only to be cut down by death's icy blade long before their time should have been up.

The dead were still grouped by their loyalty and had been placed on wooden palettes. The living seemed to be divided by their allegiances, as well. Gendry saw Arya and walked towards her; he had spent an absurd amount of time thinking about what he might say to her. _Told you I'm a fighter_ or maybe _Told you I did my share_ were the best he could come up with even after hours of running the words over in his mind.

Davos stepped in front of him, unknowingly interrupting his path. He nodded at Gendry solemnly as he took in the spectacle of the unlit pyres.

Daenerys and Jon Snow started the ritual, silently bringing torches to the oil-soaked wood. Tormund, Arya, Grey Worm, and Sansa brought the second and final round of fire. It seemed ludicrous to use torches to light thousands of bodies considering the fact that they had two dragons, but Gendry figured the ceremony was part of the process.

The grief was palpable despite the silence; many held back sobs as they mourned their fallen comrades swiped away in a battle that lasted mere hours but would stay with the survivors for a lifetime.

The smell of burning bodies momentarily brought Gendry back to King's Landing the day the Sept of Baelor had been exploded. The city reeked of burnt hair and charred bone for months after that, and he wasn't keen on experiencing it again. He distracted himself by studying the people around him. Davos had his eyes shut as tears silently streamed down his face; Sansa Stark's shoulders shook as if she was trying to stop full-body sobs from wrecking her; even the Hound seemed visibly shaken, though Gendry wasn't sure if that was because of the fire or the war.

He was unsure why he didn't feel as they did. The battle had been horrific, he had cut down reanimated men he had fought beside hours earlier and even contemplated ending his own life mid-swing, yet he now was numb. Some part of him deep within his core desperately hoped he might thaw after the feast and a decent night's sleep.

Although the bodies hadn't yet turned to ash, the crowd was ushered into the great hall as soon as the sun sank below the horizon.

The Starks sat at the main table, Daenerys and her advisors among them. Arya was with them, though she didn't seem thrilled to be there. Servants brought out platters of roast chicken, salted cabbage, and hand pies before filling cups to the brim with wine or mead. Gendry sat between Davos and Tormund at a table with Brienne of Tarth, Jaime Lannister, Podrick, and the Hound. He'd much prefer to be with the other lowborn lads further back, but Davos had insisted that he join them.

Daenerys rose from her seat with a smile that didn't quite reach her blue eyes. "In these times it is easy to become focused on our losses," her voice rang out, "The reality is that we have survived because we needed to. We have defeated the threat from the North because of the sacrifices of those who lay down their lives so we could keep going." The hall erupted into a cheer as everyone chugged their beverages down in agreement. "But we are also here because of the actions of one person. The Night King is no more." Gendry looked towards Jon, expecting him to give some sort of victory speech, but he did not rise. "Tonight we celebrate the victory brought to us by one who protected their family in the face of death itself. Tonight we continue to breathe because of Arya Stark." A buzz broke out among the room. Many looked to one another in confusion; whispers sounded as people asked one another if they had misheard.

"To Arya," Jon said, awkwardly standing up to raise his glass high in the air. Arya looked uncomfortable. She didn't look out at the hall and palmed the dagger resting on her hip as though it calmed her.

Davos started their applause, his brows raised in acceptance more than surprise. Soon the hall joined in in a deafening roar of clapping and shouting. Gendry clapped amidst his shock and confusion. Had Arya really killed the Night King?

Of course she had. That was Arya: disappearing from your life for a few years, only to show up and save the world when everyone else was just trying to stay alive. Gendry felt himself grinning like a fool as he looked at her shifting in discomfort with their attention. She seemed to realize that they were waiting for her to say something. Still seated, she raised her chalice with her left hand. "For the North," she cheered.

The Hall approved loudly and Daenerys instructed them to celebrate and revel in the joy of having lived another day. She smiled sweetly at Arya before sitting, then turned to say something to Tyrion Lannister by her side

Gendry eagerly drank the wine from his cup and tore into the chicken. One bowl of Davos' soup was all he had eaten in days and his appetite was finally returning. The Hound grabbed an entire chicken for himself and nearly knocked Gendry's goblet over in the process. The table spoke more as their libations flowed, transitioning from awkward, battle-shocked soldiers to drunken fools in under an hour. Davos was the first to mention Arya's achievement.

"Makes sense, if you ask me. Saw the girl cut down twenty of those fuckers in a single minute," he told them proudly. Gendry wanted to ask if she had used his weapon, but the Hound said something bitterly to himself and the chance was gone.

He turned towards her again and saw her watching him. Unlike the day before, when he had caught her undressing him with her eyes in the forge as he tempered a blade, her eyes didn't seem to challenge him. Gendry wished they would.

He poured himself an overflowing goblet of mead and listened to Brienne tell a tale of the time she had sparred with Arya. He didn't dare add to their stories - what would he say? That he had known her when she escaped King's Landing years ago? That they had lain together before the battle? No, those things could be kept between the two of them. Gendry listened to their tales and tried to ignore the idiotic feeling in his chest. Feelings like this were for maidens who dreamt of princes and braided flowers into their hair, not bastard blacksmiths.

Arya had moved to a different table now. He rose suddenly and walked towards her with a confidence only drink could provide. Was it his imagination, or did she smile as he approached?

"Guess you really are a fighter," she said to him with defiance glimmering in her eye.

_Fuck_. Now what was he supposed to say? He didn't have a chance to respond before three knights of the Vale were interjecting to offer Arya more ale. She readily accepted and repeated her For the North toast.

Gendry returned to the table for more wine and another hand pie. Tormund was telling an impossible story about lying with a bear when he sat. The table responded with a tipsy mixture of disgust, shock, and laughter, though all were heartily entertained. Jaime Lannister cocked his head at the large man, unsure of how to respond, and brought his cup to his lips to hide a judgmental grin.

They shared more tales, some clear lies and others rooted in shadowy truths, and continued drinking. Gendry kept getting distracted looking for Arya. It made sense that people would seek her out now that she had saved the realm, but he wasn't sure he liked it. She deserved for people to know and celebrate her, of that he had no doubt. Still, some part of him felt as though the entire North had just learned a secret only he had known.

They made eye contact again and he stood up without breaking it. He made it five paces towards her, never breaking his gaze, when a man leapt between them.

"Lady Stark!" The man shouted drunkenly, "To the beauty of the North, the savior of the seven kingdoms, the slayer of the night!" Arya looked amused at his slurred half-song and raised her glass again.

"Thank you," she said after a large gulp.

Gendry looked the man up and down in contempt. He was smaller than the smith, and wearing some poorly made armor under his cloak. Anyone who wears armor outside of battle is a damned fool, Gendry thought to himself. He stepped closer to Arya, but was interrupted by another would-be suitor, this one a young lord of some self-important Northern family.

This man was less musical but just as deluded. He told some fable about having seen Arya's kill of the Night King in person. Gendry didn't even need to look at him to know his type. He was sure he'd recognize the soft hands and shallow eyes of a man who could barely swing a sword, never mind survive what they had.

Disgruntled, he walked to his table again.

Davos had left by then, likely gone to sleep off the wine. Podrick asked Gendry a question about King's Landing, and he made up some bullshit to explain how he had wound up following Jon North. The two talked for a bit without really saying anything. They spoke of the capital and its few fine points - weather; the sea; and, Podrick insisted, women - and its shortcomings - Cersei, shit, and overcrowding, to name a few. Podrick refilled their glasses with more ale and bit into a sweet bread. The ale brought them closer as they discussed the absurdity of the North and its many proud but useless lords. How could so many families think they mattered? For that matter, how could so many families want to live in the cold anyhow? Podrick had no answer, and they mulled over the question as they drank.

Two tables over, two clean-shaven knights from the Eyrie sang a song Gendry hadn't heard before. Others scattered throughout the hall joined in, slamming their cups and hands onto the table to create music to accompany the off-pitch lyrics.

"Seven fucking hells," the Hound said in irritation. He slugged his massive cup back and refilled it just as quickly.

The men continued singing the song for a second time, this time cheered on by the Imp's claps and cheers. Gendry didn't know him well, but he quite liked the man despite the fact he was a Lannister. His renown for drinking and whoring may not be as obvious now, but he was certainly the most fun person in the North. Gendry smiled at his drunken support.

The Hound swore again, and Gendry rolled his eyes at his annoyance. He looked over at the massive man, only to see a look of disgust and confusion on the scarred face of a man staring directly at him. What had he done now? Was being entertained now enough to earn his disdain?

Gendry turned his body forward again and nearly spat out his ale when he realized what the Hound had reacted to. Arya was at the table in front of them now, staring at him unabashedly. Her gaze was somehow stronger than it had been in the forge, and he had no doubt she was imagining the same things he had been a few hours earlier.

He wasn't sure how to react in front of all of these people, though only the Hound seemed to notice. Irritated, the tall man swooped up an entire pitcher of ale and proceeded to another table.  
Gendry stared back at Arya, who was still looking at him like he was the last drop of water in a Dornish desert. He stared back this time. If she could look at him like that, he didn't see why he couldn't do the same.

Arya hopped off the table, raised her brows for a fraction of a second, and walked towards the main doors. She stopped for a moment to make sure he saw her looking back at him, then opened the doors and walked out. Gendry hurriedly grabbed his cup and followed a minute later.

She was waiting for him in the hall when he came out. Her lips turned up in a smirk when she saw him and lead them into a part of the castle he hadn't seen yet. They climbed two flights of stairs and entered a quiet, dark hallway. Arya stopped in her tracks and turned to him. Her hands pulled his face down to hers before he even realized she had touched him at all. He eagerly kissed her back, only for her to pull back and walk towards a room at the end of the hall.

She opened the door and he realized these must be her chambers. He hadn't given much thought to where Arya slept, but he would at least have assumed it would be less bare. Some furs lined the bed and a few weapons lined the wall, but the only other decorations were a Stark sigil, a few books, and some candles flickering in the dark.

Arya closed the door behind him and locked it with a wooden crossbeam, then slowly approached him.

"The savior of the seven kingdoms," Gendry said mockingly. Arya shot him a death stare. He drank another sip from his goblet and offered it to her. She eagerly took it with both hands and swallowed hard, then returned it to him. The candlelight made the bruising around her eye look worse, and suddenly Gendry's lust was less urgent.

He put down his drink and approached her. As gently as he could, he traced the cut on her forehead and the bruising along her face. His hand fell to cup the side of her cheek as he looked her over again. Here she was, Arya Stark, the woman who had killed the Night King, but also the girl who had pretended to be a boy to take the black and get back to her brother all those years ago.

She looked up at him and he moved his hand slowly down past her hair to the base of her head, his fingertips resting lightly over her still-messy hair. She stepped closer still and raised a gloved hand to touch his face as she kissed him again. Despite the stares and the intensity of their kiss minutes earlier, this kiss was slower and more tender - a gentle breeze after a thunderstorm. He kissed her back at the same pace as though he'd be perfectly content to stand like this forever.

She pulled him with both hands on his waist, their lips still attached, towards her bed, where she pushed him down and straddled him to kiss him more.

Gendry didn't really know what they were doing, but he wasn't going to risk ruining it by asking. 

...

Arya lay in her bed next to Gendry as his hands traced abstract shapes along her stomach and thighs.

They hadn't said a single word since they had drunk from his cup, and he wasn't sure they needed to. They were both in desperate need of sleep to heal their wounds and quiet their minds, but he wasn't ready to leave this moment. After a few minutes, he finally swung his legs over her to get dressed.

"Where are you going?" She asked him, an undertone he couldn't identify beneath her voice.

"You need to sleep. I need to sleep." Gods, he sounded lie an idiot.

"So sleep." He pulled up his britches begrudgingly; the forge seemed farther than ever. "Here," she said as she placed a hand on the furs by her side. Gendry hadn't considered staying in her room. What if someone came in the morning? What if someone had seen him go up with her in the first place?

Her grey eyes met his and any argument died in his throat. He shook off his britches and hurried back to her bed, where he eagerly wrapped her in his arms.

Something occurred to him and he chuckled out loud. Arya turned to him with a judgmental face.

"What?" She asked pointedly.

"So we did this because we were going to die," Gendry replied, a current of humour running through his voice, "And then we did this again because we didn't die." Arya didn't reply. "I'm just wondering why we'll do this next."

"I'm sure something will come up." She turned towards him, facing him with her tired eyes.

"Because it's cold?" He asked, half-joking.  
"Winter won't be that cold without the Others," Arya chided.

"Because it's not cold?"

She laughed then; it was a soft laugh, but a laugh none-the-less. The sound made him pull her closer as he kissed her once more before closing his eyes to drift off to a world of dreams.


	3. Chapter 3 - Rejection (Pt 1)

Rejection (Part I)

_ "That's not me."_

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Gendry slammed a hammer into the sword he was shaping. They didn't need any new weapons - between the men they had lost and the thousands of salvageable ancient blades discarded when the wights fell, they really wouldn't need to make weapons for years. Then again, he knew he wasn't doing this for Winterfell or for Daenerys' soldiers; he was doing this because it was all he knew.

The metal glowed a hot reddish orange as he removed it from the forge again and focused on carving a detail down the middle. Each smack of his hammer upon the hot metal helped cool the burning lump that had been sitting in his throat since leaving Arya to shoot her damn arrows. He had been here for over an hour now, ignoring the sounds of celebration outside as he smithed.

What the fuck had gone wrong? Everything had seemed so impossibly right - they had slept together, he had somehow survived that battle, she had killed the bloody night king, and then Daenerys had legitimized him completely unexpectedly. But none of it was enough for Arya.

Bitterness crept up from his gut into the pain in his throat as he plunged the blade into water.

What had she wanted from him? Gendry wasn't sure how he could possibly be any more obvious about his feelings. He told her he loved her; he told her he needed her to make sense of all of this. Back when he had decided to stay with the Brotherhood, he had reminded her that he couldn't be her equal. He couldn't follow her to Winterfell because of his status, he couldn't make swords for Robb because he'd just be another lowborn bastard boy. She was so young back then, too young for him to really consider in any way but as a friend, but some part of him hoped she'd stay with the Brotherhood - that she'd stay with him. It didn't escape Gendry that she was the only one to fight for him when they sold him off to the Red Woman, the only one to see his worth. Now the gods had brought them together again in the most unlikely of circumstances, they had granted him a last name and a castle, but she wanted no part of it.

Gendry began heating and shaping another sheet of metal. He still couldn't get her response out of his head. He had been worried about asking her - afraid that she might say she wanted someone better established who knew something about politics and running an entire territory. When she had bent down to his level and grabbed his face tenderly, he was certain she'd say yes. She had kissed him with more emotion than they'd exchanged the entire night they had lain together, and he was suddenly convinced they'd be okay.

The second she mentioned other women, he knew. He considered offering her something else, telling her he didn't need her to be a lady. If she wasn't interested in the traditional sense, she could run the castle and domain, he would make sure she'd be the one to answer to their people's concerns and to represent them at gathering in Kings Landing. Do lords and ladies even gather in Kings Landing? He was pretty sure he'd seen them do so at some point, though he didn't really know. Either way, he didn't need Arya to be some pristine woman dressed in silks and sewing sigils, he just needed her by his side. But, words had never come easily to Gendry. He willed himself to speak, to take the blow she had dealt him and turn it into something malleable like he'd fix an over-bent blade, but the words wouldn't come. Each second of her shooting arrows and avoiding his eye felt like a lifetime until he and the growing pit in his gut turned and found the forge.

"You're the new Lord of the Stormlands and I find you in the smithy?"

Davos stabilized himself against the door before walking over to the large working counter by the forge. He seemed a little drunk and carried two flasks of ale with him.

Gendry didn't respond; he didn't need to be reminded of his newly gifted title. It didn't matter, anyways, he was still useless at anything that wasn't the shaping or swinging of metal.

Davos slid one of the mugs of ale his way, but he didn't acknowledge it. His head had only just stopped swimming from the many drinks he had gulped down at the feast - another would bring him back.

"You don't seem very happy for a newly legitimized lord," Davos said.

"It's not all it's cracked up to be." He swung the small hammer and ignored the sparks flying towards his eyes and arms.

"It can get tedious later in life, but you should still be in the fun stage. It's all women and free castles for now." Davos smiled as he spoke, taking another drink of his own ale. "I'd guess there are a few dozen women out there who are ready to fight each other at the thought of getting to this new Baratheon lord first."

Gendry had no real response. He moved the metal to an anvil and continued thinning it. He didn't want to think about those women.

"The Stormlands are quite open minded," the older man continued, "They had no issue with your uncle Renly's lifestyle so long as he had a wife for an heir."

Gendry looked at him with confusion before remembering the rumors about Renly preferring men to women. "It's not that," he answered quickly.

Davos sighed and pulled up a bench to sit on.

"There have been rumors, you know. Rumors of a Stark sister coming to the forge more than she ought to."

Gendry stopped hammering the metal but didn't look back to see Ser Davos' face. He didn't need to see another person disapproving of his actions.

"I'd imagine the North would be quite pleased to see an alliance with the Stormlands." Gendry still didn't look at him as he turned and laid the blade down back by the forge. "And Lady Sansa looked quite impressed with your new title."

"I've never spoken with Lady Stark," Gendry finally replied. He could imagine Arya laughing at this, and that only made him angrier.

Davos drank from his cup again. "Ah. That makes more sense. I don't know Lady Arya, but -" Gendry didn't hear the rest of his sentence. Just the words "Lady Arya" filled him with shame. It sounded so absurd - how could he possibly have thought she would want that?

"You made her weapon?" He finally turned to face Davos, though he didn't step any closer. Weapons seemed a safer topic. He nodded curtly. "That was some spear. And she did real damage with it - I watched her take down dozens of those things in a minute up on the ramparts. She was an artist." Gendry cursed himself as he felt the corners of his mouth tug up into an unwanted smile. He already knew she was a good fighter, but he wished he had seen it for himself. "And the killer of the Night King at that. The two of you would be quite a pairing - a warrior and a blacksmith. It's poetic, in a strange, violent sort of way."

"It's not happening." His words came out more harshly than he intended; saying it aloud was almost as painful as her rejection itself.

Ser Davos sighed and stared softly at Gendry for a moment.

"I originally came here to congratulate you and answer any questions about being a lord from Fleabottom, but I think this takes precedence. Have a seat." Gendry felt like a child again as he forced his feet to take him to the bench and sat awkwardly an arm's length from Davos. "Let's start with the easy parts. You two have actually spoken, I take it?"

Gendry willed himself not to roll his eyes. "Technically I've known her longer than I've known you," he replied, "Though we skipped a few years in between. We were in the same group that left Kingslanding after her father was killed." Davos looked like he was thinking about this in detail and Gendry realized most people didn't even know that portion of Arya's journey. As many questions as he still had for her, everyone else must have double.

"So when the Red Woman took you, she was there?"

Gendry nodded. "Arya hated her - I wish I had listened. She wanted to kill that witch rather than let her take me."

Davos chuckled lightly, "Anyone who wants to kill her is good in my books."

Gendry found himself telling Davos more than he had ever said to anyone about his life. He told of knowing Arya wasn't Arry, of learning she was highborn, and of her offer to be his family. He wondered if she had felt the way he did now back when he told her he was staying with the Brotherhood. He had gotten to the portion of the story now where Davos came in, after Melisandre had brought him to Dragonstone and leeched him for her blood magic, and he wasn't sure if he should stop or keep going. His voice paused and he looked to the man for guidance on whether he should continue his tale.

"Did you see her in Kings Landing?" Gendry shook his head.

"I never really knew what happened to her. Sometimes I'd ask the master smiths about the Starks, but no one seemed to even know there was an Arya Stark. She wanted to go to her brother, Robb I think it was, for a wedding in the Riverlands. For a while I thought that was where she'd met her end."

"You didn't mention any of this to Jon beyond the wall, did you?"

"No. It didn't seem proper. He might be a bastard in name, but Jon is still highborn. It would be hard to explain wandering the woods with his sister and another random runaway. Besides, I didn't think she was alive until Jon mentioned her on the trip back." Davos nodded in agreement.

"And when did you see her here?"

"The third day after we had arrived, when she came to the forge to ask for that spear. I tried to find her before then but there was too much to do with the dragonglass. When I saw her she was so different, but so much the same Arya from the road," he was starting to sound like a fool again. Everyone was different and the same, it was a dumb description but he couldn't do any better, "She just kept looking at me as if…" he couldn't finish the sentence. Ser Davos may be the closest person he had here now, but even he didn't need to hear about the raw desire Arya had projected without saying a word. "Anyways, she came back a few times. She probably could have just sent someone for it, but she always came herself." He wasn't sure if he should mention that they had slept together before the battle. It wasn't exactly a tale of grand romance, though Gendry still was sure she had presented it as roughly as possible in a type of emotional self-defense.

"And that was it - you gave her the weapon and haven't seen her since?" Their eyes met and Davos instantly understood. He took a deep sip from his ale and nodded awkwardly.

"When was that?"

"The night before the battle." It dawned on him that the battle had only taken place the night before, though it felt like whole seasons had passed. "I saw her again after, while a medic stitched up my shoulder, but we didn't do any of that."

"Did she say anything to you?"

"Not then, we just sort of shared a look. This sounds stupid."

"It doesn't. A look can say quite a lot, especially in a room of other people." Gendry nodded. That look had said a lot. It had shown him that she had worried about him, that she was okay, that she was glad he was okay.

"I didn't see her at the feast."

"She wasn't there. I don't think she likes the attention. I was actually trying to find her when the Dragon Qu-" he corrected himself mid-sentence, "the queen, stopped me."

"Did you?" Gendry cocked his head to the right in confusion. "Find her?" Davos seemed intrigued with the story. This was the part he didn't want to tell him, the part from just hours ago.

"She was practicing her bow work," Gendry replied. He heard the way his voice trailed off and knew he'd make a mess of the explanation. "As soon as the queen made me 'Lord Baratheon,'" he mocked the title with a lilting tone, "I knew I had my chance. I - I did everything they tell you to do. I said everything you're supposed to say to the woman you love." He could hear his voice breaking in the second 'everything' and barely whispered the final word. Davos' face softened and Gendry felt a strange flash of anger that made him want to slap that look of pity off the older man's face.

"I told her she was beautiful, that I loved her, that I didn't know how in the seven hells I'd ever be a lord, and I told her she was all that mattered. I asked her to marry me and to be the lady of Storm's End." Davos' eyes glistened a bit; Gendry felt better knowing he wasn't the only emotional one.

"Seeing as you're sitting in a forge and not off with her in some dark corner, I'm guessing that didn't go so well."

Gendry's eyes were glistening now too, and he hated it. He desperately wanted to get up and forge more steel until his eyes were dry or at least burning from the smoke rather than tears.

"She doesn't want to be with me," he mumbled. It hurt just as much to speak as it did to think and hear.

"She sounds quite harsh," Ser Davos' voice was the same as it had been when he tried to console Gendry back in the dungeons of Dragonstone.

"She didn't say it like that," Gendry defended quickly, unsure why he felt so protective of the woman who had just crushed his heart.

"How did she say it, then? Women are complicated, Northern ones doubly so."

"She congratulated me on my title first, then when I asked her she told me I'd make a great lord and that any woman would be lucky to have me, but that she's not a lady. She never has been - it wasn't her." Davos nodded and pushed Gendry's ale towards him again. He took a gulp to push down the pain that still hadn't left his throat.

"Did she do anything? Did she move towards you or nod or cry?" Gods, women were complicated. Were you supposed to watch their every move to know what they meant?

"She put down the bow when I first talked to her, and later she kissed me. Then she went back to shooting."

"She kissed you before or after you asked her?"

"Both. Well, no. I kissed her first, before I asked, then she crouched down to meet my face after I had knelt and kissed me. Three times… I was so certain that meant she agreed." He swallowed another mouthful of ale.

"And then she just fired arrows?"

"Until I left, at least, yeah." Davos inhaled sharply as he raised his brows and nodded. A heavy quiet settled around them as he considered what he had just heard.

"That hardly sounds like a 'no,' lad," Gendry felt the anxiety in his eyes as he looked towards Ser Davos. "Give her time. These are strange times we live in. You proposed to her within minutes of being legitimized, not even a day after she killed the Night King himself. Let her think and calm down a bit, then seek her out."  
Gendry nodded. He didn't want to hope again, not if she was going to reject him just as she had earlier. Davos wasn't done with the subject; Gendry wished they could just sit in silence.

"Everything I've heard about Arya Stark suggests she is determinedly unladylike. Maybe leave that bit out next time you see her."

Their eyes met again. Davos didn't know Arya - Gendry wondered if they had ever spoken beyond the confines of battle planning - but even he knew better than the mad request Gendry had rambled as a proposal.

"They all say they don't want to be ladies," he said, thinking out loud as he spoke the words. He had learned this all before, both from men's warnings and tales of heartbreak and his own first experience with love. That had been different, but it had still pained him despite the brevity. "But they still dream about living off in some castle with a lord somewhere. Somehow I actually think she liked me better as a smith." He looked off at a group loudly walking by door to the forge as he tried not to think about the fact his sudden elevation had cost him the woman he loved.

Davos placed his gloved hand over Gendry's. "You deserve what you were gifted tonight. You may look like a Baratheon, but you don't act like one. That's a good thing. You think realistically and you feel more than Stannis or Renly ever did. No one was more proud to see you acknowledged tonight than I was." Gendry made eye contact despite his insecurity. He was still a lowborn bastard at heart and couldn't help but feel this had all been some massive mistake. "If you want this, don't give it up for a woman. There are more women out there, but you are the only Baratheon."

He couldn't help but disagree. There may be many women, but there was only one Arya.

...

...

_Note: the next chapter will be Arya's take on what happened (rather than waiting for episode 5)._


	4. Chapter 4 - Rejection (Pt 2)

Rejection Part II: Arya

Arya shot arrows until her gloves were worn; her fingers cramped up and forced themselves straight, unwilling to knock back or pluck the string. She yearned for something _else_ to practice - if only someone was awake and willing to spar. Of course, no one was. Everyone else was drunk and celebrating, it seemed. She had told Gendry she was celebrating too, though that required a specific definition more along the lines of 'acknowledging a win but not letting one's guard down.'

Arya sighed and collected the arrows she had fired. The canvas target was a wreck of many small holes torn into one until only the bad shots farther from the center stood out. She studied the fabric for a moment, trying not to be melodramatic as she thought of how it might reflect her own situation - small individual points of damage congealing and cumulating into one massive, irreparable tear.

Her grey eyes found the place Gendry had knelt hours ago, the spot she had avoided since his proposal. What was he thinking, asking her something like that? She knew he was drunk - the scent of spilled ale wafted from him when he approached her and his kisses had tasted of tannin and wine.

Drunk Gendry was endearing but selfish, she determined. His words were pure and his intentions good, but he did not think. She wondered if it was unfair to consider if that he had never enjoyed thinking in all their time together. It didn't seem inaccurate, he was a man of action but not of analysis. It seemed the only time Gendry thought things through was to determine the length and edge of a blade, to rationalize the ratio of handle to axe. or how much dragonglass he'd need to create weapons for their battle against the dead. He did not use logic in interactions with others - she had seen that with the Hound, who he let pour out abrasive words without ever seeming to realize that the older man was trying to intimidate him; she saw it with his new appointment, too. He should have been thinking about rallying his forces and drawing them south to aid in the fight to remove Cersei, not about her.

In theory, Arya could comprehend why he had done it. His discomfort with the class distance between them had been obvious since the moment he had discovered she was Arya Stark. Between the emotional high of his sudden legitimization as the heir to a major house, the heavy-handed flow of drink, and the simple fact that they were alive after a fight that had seemed utterly hopeless, Arya understood the motivation. It was the execution that was all wrong.

In truth, had this happened a year ago, she likely would have agreed. She wouldn't have cared about the implications of his statement - she would have assumed they'd find a way to allow her to run the region while he did whatever it was he would do. But he had asked her now, after she had avenged the deaths of her mother and brother with acts arguably as brutal as their own endings; he had asked her hours after she had killed a literal embodiment of death after nearly meeting her demise. Arya was not going to lie to herself for anyone. Not even if she wanted to.

Gendry always seemed _different_. While other men saw her as a harmless, small woman, she thought he saw her as she was. He had felt her scars, looked into her eyes, made her weapons - but he was no different. He did not see her as she truly was.

That thought tore at her as much as refusing him had.

She had always thought Gendry was better; still a man, but superior to the rest. Where others overestimated their strength, Gendry underestimated his own; where the rest of them thought they knew all the secrets to ruling, Gendry openly admitted his complete lack of preparedness. But ultimately he had proven the same - he saw her, _and all women_, she resigned, as a prize. Despite the flashes of excitement that lit up his face when she threw knives in the forge and the way he had handcrafted her spear, he did not see Arya Stark the warrior, only Arya Stark the lady.

She blinked tears from her eyes and became No One again as she inhaled a frustratingly inconsistent breath. The air around her stank of sweat and mead and sex; she wished it would smell like snow and blood again.

_"Be the lady of Storm's End."_ The words crashed back into her mind as she looked again at where they had kissed. Arya knew the kiss had mislead him but she had needed time to process what was happening. Those kisses had been so glorious, saying so much more than she could with words alone. She paused now as she replayed them in her head. It was the last time she'd ever kiss him, of that she was certain.

Gendry was infinitely better off without her; she wasn't capable of the love and support he needed. He deserved his castle and his perfect wife, someone to mend his clothes lovingly and raise little black-haired babes that nipped at their heels. Pups nip, babies don't, she reminded herself. She couldn't even describe babies accurately in her mind - she'd never be a doting mother who merrily reestablished his line and warmed his bed while he went off to battle.

She couldn't be what he needed; she likely couldn't be anyone at all.

There was little chance Arya would survive the next few months. What was the use in thinking about what she could or couldn't give a man she wouldn't be with when her remaining days were decreasing faster than leaves after the first killing frost? She could make no promises. Gendry would make it out of this war with a new lordship and tens of thousands of Bannerman; Arya would die in its midst. She had no doubt her list would be her demise. Even she couldn't stroll into King's Landing, kill the queen, and live to tell the tale.

Feeling hollow as she imagined the many ways she may die in the coming weeks, Arya returned the arrows to their quiver and looped her arm under the bow. She snuck past the courtyards around the inner walls of the barbican and hoisted herself into an open window rather than going through the door. It was easier to avoid attention this way.

The halls were dark and empty as she silently padded up the stairs and around two turns of the hall until she reached her old room. It no longer felt like hers now, just a shell of wood and furniture that had once been her only private space. She laid the bow upon a table and rested the quiver beside it. She stood there, unsure of what to do even in this small space, until she found herself wandering to a small square mirror hanging on the wall. Arya had never enjoyed looking in it - she was never particularly pleased with what it showed her - but now it felt like her best option to find some direction.

The face that stared back at her was gruesome and damaged. The gash where she had smacked her head when escaping wights the night before was inflamed to a shocking shade of magenta. Bruising bloomed around it, curving down to her cheek to fan into a hideous yellowing brown around her eye. Gendry must have been drunker than she realized to call her beautiful.

Arya stepped away from the mirror and sighed. She longed for a good book to occupy her mind while she kept away from the festivities outside. She might have considered heading towards the library to peruse the titles had more time passed since she was terrified for her life there just the night before. Besides, there was little doubt it was littered with couples stealing away to fuck in the privacy between shelves. She almost wished she was one of them. Until Gendry's ill-considered proposal, she had been sure she'd spend her night shut in this very room, naked and blissful as they explored one another until the sun rose. This time there would have been no horns and battles to wake them - they could sleep until their minds or desires caused them to stir. Maybe they would have spent the entire next day in bed. But he had shattered that illusion with a simple suggestion.

She hoped he was alright. He had looked so defeated when she responded, so utterly heartbroken. Arya couldn't stand seeing him that way. She had to turn and focus on sending each arrow into the bullseye, lest her heart break with his.

Where was he now? Drinking with the others, she supposed. Maybe he had already found a new woman to be his lady. She had seen the way they looked at him, oblivious as he seemed to be. Their heavy-lidded eyes batted and their cheeks flushed as they passed; sometimes they giggled and whispered to one another while they drank in his muscular frame and sharp cheekbones. Arya hated girls like that, girls who acted useless and obsessed over men. They'd be better off with swords in their hands, she thought.

She pushed aside the image of Gendry surrounded by beautiful women, actually beautiful ones, not cold, bruised little killers. It was illogical to feel the way she did considering the fact she had just been reminding herself that she couldn't be with him. Still, the thought of other women with their hands on his body made her queasy.

Arya would see for herself how he dealt with rejection.

She left her room and returned to slink through the courtyards. Staying in the shadows, she hunted for familiar faces and voices. She saw Ser Brienne of Tarth's squire with a woman on each arm, whispering to them with a smirk; to the West wall stood two men so drunk they had to lean on one another as they made water; a woman to her left was vomitting from too much drink. She felt her upper lip turn up in disgust at the brash scene playing out before her.

The face she sought was not among them, so she turned a corner to look elsewhere. A man and a woman were arguing loudly under the arch nearest her. Beside the small sapling under the east window, two Knights of the Vale sloppily flailed their fists at one another, neither actually connecting. Still no sign of Gendry.

She thought for a moment that he may have already found a woman for the night. Mayhaps he was already forgetting her with someone else. Arya didn't like the emotions she had to push back into her gut at the mental image.

She continued through the courts of the castle silently. A large fire bathed the path to her right in a glowing amber. Arya realized this was the forge - someone was smithing.

This was the first time she had seen the forge without dozens of workers and its unexpected loneliness struck her like a cold gust of wind. She didn't hear hammering or hissing metal, just voices speaking lowly.

Arya carefully peered into the building, careful to keep most of her face hidden by the door. Gendry was speaking to Davos about something she couldn't quite hear. He looked like himself again, his sooty face reddened by the heat of the flames. This was how she liked him best - vibrant and messy. He looked emotional, throwing his hands about dramatically as he spoke to the older man. She wanted to hear what he was saying, but couldn't make out the words over the roar of the fire and the nearby crowds. She took a step into the building and hid herself in the shadows as best she could.

She still couldn't quite hear what he was saying, but she had a feeling she was part of the discussion. The shouting man a few meters to her left walked away and she could finally hear him.

"Somehow I actually think she liked me more as a smith." His eyes shone with sadness again as he looked to Ser Davos for a response, then gazed forward in resignation. She felt herself leaning towards them and realized she was breathing louder than she should. Leaping back towards the door, she managed to shuffle behind a group as she saw Gendry look to the door.

Arya got herself to a vacant corner and leaned against the cold stone wall. This was all so pedantic and immature. She had killed the Night King herself just the night prior, and now she was gasping while listening in on a boy in the forge - it was ludicrous.

Ludicrous or not, the sadness on his face twisted in her stomach just as painfully as the Waif's knife had back in Braavos. This was why she couldn't say yes. These emotions were distracting - how would she ever take down Cersei and the Mountain if all she could think of was Gendry and his feelings?

It was late now, nearing dawn, but still dark. Most of the merrymakers had found their way to the nearest horizontal surfaces to sleep off the effects of their drinks, and the courtyard was quieting down. She stayed in the shadows as she walked out towards the stables. Jon's direwolf laid across from the horse he preferred.

"Ghost," Arya said with a smile. He cocked his head up and lifted his healthy ear at his name.  
She approached him and extended a hand before petting him. The poor wolf had taken quite a beating in the battle; Arya wished she had a salve to put on his wounds. She tangled her fingers in his thick white fur around his neck and pressed her face into it for a moment, wishing it was Nymeria She pulled away as soon as the realization hit her, but Ghost didn't seem to mind. She pet him again and made a mental note to nick some meat from the kitchens to bring him tomorrow. Ghost nuzzled her hand when she stopped petting him. She found herself smiling again as she smoothed the hair atop his massive head.

Petting Ghost did something to relax her, and soon she finally felt able to return to her room and get a few hours sleep before their battle planning meeting in the morn.

When she returned to her room, Arya locked the door and rinsed her face in the now icy bucket of water that had been laid by the door. She removed her cloak and clothing, finding a warm wool nightshirt to wear their place before blowing out all but one candle and curling up between furs.

A deep sorrow that had been waiting in her bones woke from its hibernation and shook itself out into her chest. It wasn't the same type of dismay she felt when she had lost her father, but surely it must be a distant relative. She repeated her list silently and tried her best to rinse away the sadness with determination and revenge; at best it only took the edge off.

Arya closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep, trying her hardest to pretend she didn't hope she fell into vivid dreams about wandering forests with a certain blacksmith and her old direwolf.


	5. Chapter 5 - Among the Ashes

Chapter 5 - Among the Ashes

Cool air blew glowing embers into the sky. Arya poked the fire with a stick to keep the crackling logs from collapsing as she ignored the smoke gusting towards her eyes. She was two days out from King's Landing, two days away from killing Cersei.  
The Hound had insisted they stop for the night, roughly grabbing the reins of her horse to stop her from continuing along the road once he had dismounted his own steed. Had she gotten her way, Arya would have galloped through the night to get to the Red Keep as soon as humanly possible. She had the plan memorized with a dozen alternatives - Cersei would die in all of them. But this was their fifth night without stopping and the Hound had demanded they pause for an ale and something to eat at a local tavern. The alcohol took its effect and made his eyes heavy, and Arya could not bring herself to abandon him again. He drifted in and out of sleep while propped up against a tree; she tended the fire and listening for the wolves she desperately hoped might leap from the forest to meet her.

A snore turned into a choking cough and the large man against the tree woke up aggravated and drunk.

"Why are you still up?" His gruff voice rang out louder than she expected in the night air, "No Lannister soldiers for miles. You don't need to stay on watch."

Arya did not reply, but stared at the smoldering logs before her.

"When's the last time you slept?" She stayed quiet. Thrice she had dozed off while riding South, but she had not truly slept in nearly a week. "Fucking hells, girl, I know you aren't deaf." Arya turned to him and narrowed her eyes in contempt. "If you're going to kill that bitch you'll need to rest."

She pushed his words from her head and stirred the coals of the fire again. This time there was no need to move the wood, nothing to be aerated or rearranged, but she pushed anyways. The contents shifted and crumbled into a mess of orange and disintegrating black remnants.

The Hound moved behind her and she heard as he sat two arm-lengths to her right. He swilled his wineskin and then tossed it at her; she didn't need to look to reach out and catch it with her non-dominant hand.

"The ride back will be longer, you know. And I won't be here to make you stop and eat."

Arya turned to face him now. He wasn't looking at the flames - he never did. The long ago-charred flesh stretching over the left side of his face peaked through his wild hair.

"Already told you, I'm not going back."

"Storm's End is still almost a week." Arya's head spun towards him in surprise.

"Not going to Storm's End," she responded, trying to ignore the softness in her voice as she said it. The Hound turned his head just enough to acknowledge that he knew more than she thought before going back to his wineskin.

"Not going to find that twat of a smith?" He asked.

Arya disliked this. She could hear the knowing tone in his voice and wished he would just shut up and go back to sleep by that tree again.

"He ever find you after the feast?" When did the Hound start caring about her personal life? They had gone nearly three weeks without talking about much of anything, but now he wanted to insert himself where he didn't belong?

She nodded just enough to acknowledge his question and hoped he wouldn't see. Since leaving Winterfell - since refusing his proposal, truly - she had tried to block off thoughts of Gendry. He was distracting. Thinking of Gendry lead to thoughts of their night together before the Battle for Winterfell, to memories of roaming hands and laughter and warmth that threatened to pull her into fantasy.

"Better not be pregnant." Arya wrinkled her nose in disgust at his comment. She wasn't pregnant, she had bled the day after they passed Moat Cailin, but she certainly wasn't about to tell him that.

"I'm not," she defended angrily.

"Of course not. If you were you might actually sleep."

They sat in silence until he finally laid down and rolled to his right side to return to his slumber. Arya kept stabbing at the remnants of the fire until they turned from orange to red, finally smoldering into black ash and wisps of escaping heat rather than smoke. The sun lit the eastern sky a glowing pink, and she readied their horses before poking the Hound with the fire stick and continuing down the road.

...

"Sandor, thank you."

Arya had never said his given name aloud before, but it seemed right. The huge man looked at her one last time before turning to face his true purpose.

Nearby, the dragon roared and made the castle shake violently. Arya had never been allowed in the map room in her months here as a child, but there was no time to take it in now. She turned and ran.

The feeling of bittersweet realization and redemption was ripped out of her the second she exited the Red Keep. Plumes of smoke and rubble clogged her lungs and singed her eyes; Violently-finished corpses lined the streets; smallfolk moaning against the wall consoled bodies that resembled cinders more than human beings.

Arya ran with all her might. For a moment, she wished she could escape through the tunnels as she once had all those years ago; no, it was too dangerous. The castle stood in precarious shards, each remnant one gentle breeze or flap of a dragon's wing from crumbling.

She sprinted forward and tried her best to ignore the desperate pleas of those around her.

"Have you seen my wife?" A man asked while grabbing her. She didn't know him, but for a moment he seemed to resemble Gendry - she wondered if they were related. _No, no time for that,_ she reprimanded herself when she wondered about how many of those screaming by her may have known the new Lord of the Stormlands.

She ducked to avoid falling debris and tried to keep her eyes forward, desperate to ignore the screams and blood of innocent civilians. The dragon screeched overhead as she desperately tried to find her way out.

Fleeing people crashed into her; exploding stones disintegrating from the load of the crashing buildings they had held for generations ripped into her face. She turned again and followed her feet as they led her through a cloud of stone and screams.

Suddenly, Arya was caught in a tempest of panic. A mass of bodies collided with her and she crashed to the stones below. She tried to push herself up, but feet caught upon her elbows and a knee smashed into her shoulder. Someone stepped on her rib with a sickening crack. It was too loud to know where to twist to avoid them, too hectic to strategize. A man twice her size fell on top of her, shoving her back down. She desperately tried to protect her head and neck as more and more people trampled her small body.

"Take my hand. Take my hand! Get up!" A woman with cropped hair and a child half Arya's age pulled her up. She had seen them when she and Sandor had shoved their way into the Red Keep; the guilt she had pushed down then resurged as bile boiling up into her throat.

She accepted the woman's hand and watched with her as the dragon melted stone and metal. As quickly as she had been pulled up, she was separated from them. Bodies pushed past her and she soon lost track of the mother and child in the chaos. Arya wanted terribly to keep them safe, to stay by their side as they escaped, but they were gone.

The crowd around her turned to watch a building fall violently; Arya pushed ahead, finally in front of the shoving masses. A grey wreck of stone and ash surrounded her and all became still.

...

Arya wasn't sure when she had stood back up, nor when soldiers had surrounded them. The men around her were dressed as Northeners, but she did not recognize their faces.

"Arya!" That was a voice she did recognize, one she knew all too well. She spun around to see Gendry leading a small battalion of men dressed in shades of yellow and black, stags adorning their breastplates. A flood of Unsullied and Dothraki followed after his men. Clashes of steel and flesh mingled with the roar of the dragon and the collapse of the buildings.

Gendry was behind her now, his back not an arm's length from hers. She unsheathed Needle and water danced to skewer and slice the men coming towards the screaming women cowering under the archway. Gendry smashed a hammer - or was it a mace? She could have sworn it changed with each swing - into them; together they ushered the commoners beside her to get out to safety.

Suddenly the attackers fell just as the dead had after she plunged her dagger into the Night King. They were alone now, breathing heavily through the smoke and dust. He took her hand and led her around a corner to a Weirwood tree that looked exactly like the one in the Godswood of Winterfell.

Arya breathed deeply, savoring the clear, cold air. The ground below her was not the smolders of pulverized stone, but soft moss and clean dirt. The wind whispered words she couldn't quite understand in her ears as it caressed her face and cooled her mind.

She looked up at the blood-red leaves of the white tree. Pangs of sorrow shot through her heart as she thought of her father - this was where his gods lived. One could not be dishonest before it.

Gendry was there again, a gentle presence just one deep breath from her back; she pivoted towards him and took him in slowly. His dark hair had grown faster than she'd expected in the weeks she traveled from Winterfell. _Why isn't he wearing armour?_ She quieted the thought with a soft touch to his tunic. His rough hands found hers - or perhaps hers had found his, she wasn't sure - and pulled her closer.

He reached up and looked concerned as his fingertips grazed her neck and face; his touch stung and felt strangely wet.

Arya tipped onto her toes and closed the distance between their lips, absorbing any emotion she could get from him in an attempt to fill the hollow dread radiating from her gut.

Gendry snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her down to sit upon a large root of the Weirwood tree. She rocked forward and kissed him more deeply. This felt different - it was less frantic than their first night together before the battle and less needy than the impassioned exchange they had shared in a random room upon finding one another after realizing they had both survived. These had none of the tender sadness that her kisses had when she heard his proposal; they were warmed honeycomb spread upon fresh bread - open-mouthed, lovely, and slow.

He pulled away slowly and smiled softly.

"You're going to get up, right?"

Arya buried her face into his chest and ignored the question. She never wanted to leave, never wanted to let this moment end.

"Arya," his voice was less gentle now, "Arya, you need to get up." She ignored him again.

"Arya!" Sansa's voice rang out behind her. It was not the calculating, intentional voice of the Lady of Winterfell as she was now, but the shrill cry she had called throughout their childhood.

"They're right, girl. Get up." How had Sandor gotten into the Godswood?

Gendry gently moved her off of his body and stood before extending a hand and pulling her up.

She woke with a gasp. Smoke and soot clogged her lungs and throat, but she was alive. Slowly, the sounds of the disarray around her came back. She was atop a pile of rubble in King's Landing, nearly a thousand miles from the nearest Weirwood tree.

Arya tried to shake off the disorientation pounding in her head as she stood and moved forward. She tried to run, but her body would not change pace until she doubled over and hacked up everything in her lungs.

The bell tower above her cracked audibly and suddenly her legs remembered their speed. She ducked into a storage corner in a desperate attempt to avoid the collision and panted in the darkness, not fully sure if she was really still alive. Everything hurt, her lungs burned and the broken rib jutted out so far she could feel it when her arm brushed her torso. _Yes_, she confirmed, _I'm still here_.

The woman and her child were in front of her, as were fewer than dozen other survivors. Sobs rang out and the stench of blood and piss rose above the other smells of disaster.

Her brief dream, addictive as it had been, trickled determination back into her heart. She would get these people out of here; she would live to see the Godswood and hear her pack's voices again.

Arya tried to pull the girl and her mother to escape. How could they possibly think this was safe? "You can't stay here,' she urged, "You have to keep moving." The mother's eyes shined with hopelessness. Arya knew this look, the look of resignation - they had given up. The survivors argued with her, pleaded shallow excuses that endured analysis like the buildings around them endured dragonfire. "If you stay here, you'll die!" Her words ripped through the dust coating her vocal chords and shouted with urgency. But they did not move.

"Follow me," she said, taking the woman into her arms and physically lifting her towards safety. "Follow me!" She could not carry them all.

Some of the dust had cleared, but the chaos was just as rampant. Now Dothraki charged through the streets to cut down anyone in their path. Arya shoved the mother and her child to the side as she fell, certain she'd feel a blade open her back. Miraculously, she felt only the pain of her fall - she had been spared. The mother was not so lucky.

"Mama," the little girl cried repeatedly as she shoved her mother's body. Arya looked for a way out. The woman stirred, but the dragon was coming for them again.

She pulled at the older woman's arms and shoulders and supported her as they moved. The woman stumbled; she was done for. "Take her," she begged, nodding towards her daughter before dropping to the ground.

Arya spun to grab the girl but she screamed and wriggled free just as the dragon breathed fire upon the street.

Screaming, she dove into an alley behind a pile of bodies and fallen slabs of granite.

Long ago, when they had first seen the charred ruins of Harrenhal, Gendry had asked her and Hot Pie what fire could burn hot enough to melt stone. "_Dragonfire_," she had responded. Arya had always loved learning about the Targaryen rule, the decimation and destruction their dragons had brought upon Westeros at the hands of fascinating warriors like Visenya and Rhaenys. The irony was clear to her now as she felt the scalding heat of everything around her turning to liquid and ash: she would be killed by the modern incantation of her heroes.

Aya laid there, her arms wrapped around her head as if they would somehow prevent tonnes of limestone from crushing her. She did not move as men with the accent of her homelands laughed while slicing and forcing themselves upon the screaming women around her; she remained still as the dragon swooped down once more to roast the main street just two corners to the south.

It seemed as though a lifetime had passed before the roar of the dragon was too far too hear. The streets were empty now, at least from living creatures. Ash floated down from the heavens; for a moment, Arya wished it were snow, she wished she had never left Winterfell at all.

She rose slowly, still not sure anything was safe or real.

The pain in her body didn't matter anymore; the stink of death and flame around her no longer registered in her mind. This was shock - she was sure of it. Her father had told her of battleshock, of how sounds and fears changed at war and of all the ways soldiers came home changed men. Arya had always thought she was different, that she was indestructible and made for war.

The few surviving structures burned from the inside. Corpses resembling abstract cinders more than human remains littered the streets. The girl and her mother had been burnt to blackened skeletons, the child's arm forever wrapped around her parent while her charred toy had become permanently joined to her hand.

Arya's heart burned for her own mother now, a mother she hadn't thought of in some time. She hadn't saved her just like she hadn't saved these two. Killing Walder Frey hadn't brought her mother back to her - killing his sons hadn't sewn Robb's head back upon his body.

She could no longer push back the tears streaming down her face as they mixed with blood and ash.

A horse neighed to the east; she was grateful for any sign of life. The mare was pale and bloodied, but it was alive. They stared at one another for a moment as if both believed they might burst into flame and burn each other at any second.

Slowly, Arya stepped forward through the destruction. The horse did the same.

She reached out and grabbed the rein, soothing the mare with a whisper. She pet her gently to let her know she was a friend. The sensation felt oddly comforting, not unlike when she had clung to Nymeria's fur when she heard the news about Bran's fall.

She swung herself up into the saddle and patted the horse's neck to let her know she was ready. Together they galloped past the carnage and death until they were far gone from that damned hellscape.

Arya wondered if the horse had a destination - she certainly did not know where she was going. _"The ride back will be longer."_ Sandor's words repeated in her mind.

But she wasn't going home. Not yet, maybe not ever.

They rode until they found a wooded area past the smoke and the zenith of the stench of death. Arya dismounted the mare and pet her gently before leading them to a small brook bubbling past lichen-covered rocks. Her gloved hands skimmed the water and cupped it to her face, stinging wounds she didn't realize existed.

The horse lowered herself to drink from the stream. Arya sat fully, leaning back against the horse's massive side. Her eyes burned and she couldn't bear to keep them open any longer; moving water and the horse's deep breaths lulled her to a land beyond the chaos they had escaped. For the first time in ages, Arya let herself sleep.


	6. Chapter 6 - Honor

**Honor**

...

...

**Gendry**

The Unsullied marched out of the dragon pit with the same precision they had displayed on their journey from White Harbor a few months before, their steps synchronized to sound almost as if one. Gendry found their unity fascinating, if not a bit unnerving.

This whole meeting had seemed ludicrous at first. When the raven's scroll arrived at his newly acquired home of Storm's End, he figured Davos had invited him as an opportunity to learn politics through practice. He begrudgingly agreed and rode north to King's Landing, stopping along the way to meet some of the more prominent families of his new territory. They had arrived the evening before the trial was to take place and immediately saw to his frustratingly limited duties. That night, they supped with old men eager to discuss tax codes and fish rates; Gendry wished they'd eat with warriors and smallfolk instead.

Now they were gathered in this strange place - Davos explained it once housed dragons, though Gendry couldn't figure out how they ever could have fit - and somehow they now collectively had the power to determine the course of two lives.

The group had made history this day, he was sure of it. Deciding a crippled boy from the  
North would be king, some even suggesting they represent the views of commoners - who knew lords could pause their arrogance long enough for this?

To his right, Ser Davos stood and shook out an aching leg. The lord to his left brought a hand to his beard and arose from his polished wooden seat. One-by-one, the other lords and ladies stood and made their way out of the gravel stadium. Gendry realized he should do the same and stood awkwardly quickly.

Lordship was filled with odd protocol such as this - how exactly was he supposed to know when he should stand? Was it disrespectful to rise before a more prominent lord had done so?

Sighing lightly, he rolled his shoulders back as much as his tight leather overcoat allowed. He was still quite sore from the journey and longed for a hot bath. _Not even two months as a lord and already used to baths_, he thought in ridicule of how quickly he had grown accustomed to luxury. His eyes found Arya's accidentally and he lowered them back to the wooden slats between them. This was the fourth time they had made eye contact; he wished one of them would nod or smile, at least, but found his body refused to cooperate.

Arya turned to her siblings and said something before watching as Sansa wheeled Bran out of the pit.

"Lord Gendry, I'm going to ensure our meetings are in place for tomorrow. I trust I'll see you at dinner?" There was a tone of encouragement in Davos' voice, as if he knew what Gendry was thinking.

Gendry nodded in agreement and thanked him.

He watched them file out until finally Arya's grey eyes flashed to his once more before she too turned and walked off the platform. Two lords Gendry couldn't name stood between them, but he walked briskly past them without considering their reaction. He would be damned if any random highborns were getting between him and Arya Stark.

He had tried his hardest to not make a fool of either of them by singling her out when he arrived, tried to stop himself from staring at her and the new addition to the scar on her forehead. He would be in King's Landing for a few days, likely a week at the very least - they would have time to speak, he reminded himself.

Still, he hadn't been able to stop from glancing over at her every few minutes. Thrice she had been doing the same when he turned his head towards her. The first occurrence had been the least awkward, a reassuring but sad smile whispered across her face before she returned her attention to Tyrion. The second seemed the strangest - he had been horrified yet excited to think she was staring at his manhood through his pants, only to realize she was scrutinizing the sword he now wore upon his hip. Her eyes had darted quickly from his when she realized he had seen her, a smirk fighting its way onto her countenance. The third instance happened so fast that he would have thought he had imagined it had she not furrowed her brow in an attempt to look as though she was thinking about something important.

You didn't catch someone staring at you thrice because they wanted nothing to do with you.

"Arya," he called out as he stepped off the platform.

She paused and pivoted towards him, her face softening for a moment before regaining its usual indifference.

"So this is how it's going to be now?" She pursed her lips but did not respond. "We're just going to ignore each other and act like strangers?"

Arya sighed as she turned to face him fully.

"Would you have preferred I stop the entire meeting to greet you individually?" Her voice was tired, as if she hadn't been sleeping. Gendry felt a wave of concern settle into his chest.

"You'll need to take care to list my titles properly." His words were softer now, and he felt some joy at the sight of the corners of her mouth raising ever-so-slightly at his joke.

"You do look like a proper lord."

Gendry raised his brows, desperately hoping to ignore the warmth he felt from her kind words.

"Definitely don't feel like one." It was true. The Stormlands had been surprisingly receptive to his lordship - his appearance was sufficient for them to accept his lineage, and word of the destruction of King's Landing arrived just before he did. The noble houses were not going to risk the fury of a dragon queen to refute a Baratheon bastard with a good heart.

Arya didn't reply as she scanned his face and attire once more, a soft smile resting upon her face and eyes filled with something he couldn't quite recognize.

The final remaining lords walked around them and suddenly it was just the two of them again. The dragon pit felt the size of a kingdom of its own, its air as heavy as the silence between them. Gendry could only bear that silence for so long.

"Will you be staying here, then? Bran will be the safest king in history with you as his kingsguard." His words came out rushed and shoved together; he tried to suppress the hope he could feel trying to take root at the thought of her only a week's ride away.

Arya shook her head lightly.

"Or Sansa. The Queen in the North - I imagine you're pleased by that. I'm sure no one will dare oppose the sister of the woman who slayed the Night King." He still felt awkward as he spoke, like his words were somehow supposed to mend whatever seemed to be wrong with the small woman avoiding his gaze.

"Not Winterfell," her eyes finally met his. "I'm leaving." _Leaving?_

"Off to the Iron Islands to put an end to Yara Greyjoy's disrespect of Jon?" Arya's quick threat had impressed and amused him, but his reference didn't seem to elicit any such feelings in her now.

"Leaving Westeros." Her voice was the softest he had ever heard it.

"Where will you go? Braavos, to meet that friend you freed who gave you that coin?" Gendry could barely remember the man, but he recalled that she had been so intent on finding him again.

"I'm going West." She was staring off at the side of the limestone archway now.

"West," He repeated her final word as he processed it, "What's west?" Gendry felt like a fucking fool asking all of these questions.

"No one knows."

Gendry had heard the tales before, the countless experienced sailors who had tried to find out what existed past the Sunset Sea. All had died. One's ship had made it to Essos years later, if he recalled correctly, but she had never been heard from again, either.

The conflict that had settled in his gut upon asking her plans morphed into an anger more intense than any he had felt in ages. Arya Stark, resigning herself to death at sea?_ What a bloody waste._ He clenched his fists and forced his jaw to relax enough to speak.

"Have you gone completely mad?" His voice was harsher than he had expected, but he made no attempt to soften it. "Have you even sailed a day in your life?"

Arya turned to face him and met his glare with one just as dangerous. She took two steps towards him and he tried to ignore the excitement brewing as she approached.

"It's none of your business, but I've contracted a crew for the journey."

"A crew who would willingly sail west and drown? Either their minds are as lost as yours or they've robbed you. I'd bet all the gold in Braavos that you'll show up to an empty dock." His words were bitter, though true in essence. He knew men well enough - none would volunteer to sail across the sea and die for the whims of some northern lady.

Arya did not respond, but raised a thick brow to question his assumption.

"Have you told them yet?"

"Told who?" Her voice came out fast and scornful; Gendry's heart beat a little faster upon the realization that she was starting to sound nearly as angry as he did.

"Your family," he responded just as quickly as she had asked. "Have you told Sansa and Bran that you're off to chase some noble death at sea? Will you even tell Jon, or will you just leave in the night without a word?" The last part was unnecessary. Still, he wouldn't wish upon anyone the way her unannounced departure from Winterfell the night after his proposal had dug into his heart.

Arya broke her eyes away from his and inhaled a light breath; exhaustion and indifference washed down upon her face. She blinked twice before responding, "That isn't your concern."

Gendry almost felt bad for her; she had spent so much of their early time together talking about her "pack" and how she'd find them. Now she was going to force herself to leave the few who had cheated death as soon as she'd gotten back to them. "And I suppose you won't have any need for a smith aboard your ship." He was ashamed at how softly his words rang out. Where was the fury he had struggled to hold back just breaths before?

"No. But Storm's End certainly needs their lord."

_No._ It was truly that simple, wasn't it? She didn't need him, she didn't want him. He was a fool for deluding himself into ever thinking otherwise. Arya had already rejected his proposal once - how many times did he need to touch a flame before realizing it would burn?

"'Course," the anger was seeping out of him again. "I wasn't enough as a smith and I'm not enough as a lord."

"You're being melodramatic."

He sneered at her assessment, feeling every bit as insecure as he had when he'd seen highborn lads try to impress her on the Kingsroad.

"And you're being selfish!" He was shouting now. "You're going to waste your family fortune on a ship to take you to the edge of the Sunset Sea and then what? Starve? Be eaten by your own men when you run out of food? Lose to a storm and become food for the creatures of the sea? All so you can trick yourself into thinking you're too special and brave to be around everyone else."

His words evoked nothing in Arya. The tiny movements he could normally read - the quiver of her left brow, the angle at which she positioned her shoulders, whether she let her lips open or kept them shut - they were all blank. Her refusal to care only infuriated him further.

"Well, if by some miracle or curse you do survive, don't come looking to feel alive again in Storm's End."

Gendry didn't allow himself to look back at her as he huffed off out of that dreadful pit.

He rounded the stone walkway and moved as quickly as he could. Clouds of amber dust rose up with each stomp. He found Ser Davos seated on a bench by the stables, a worn book open between his gloved hands.

"I'm going back early," Gendry grunted out as he approached the older man. If he left tonight and rode fast, he could make it back before week's end.

"Like hell you are," Davos responded.

"You know these men anyways, what use is a smith from Flea Bottom?"

"I've just finished laying the work to ensure Gendry of House Baratheon, Lord of the Stormlands, Armorer of the Living against the Dead, is respected and secure in his position. You want to throw that away? I don't think so. You're staying here." Gendry felt his ears burn at the shame of titles he didn't deserve.

He ducked into the stable and found his horse, a white steed with grey patches along his chest and rump. The horse neighed softly as he approached and gently raised a hand to stroke his muzzle. _He needs to rest_, he rationalized. Horses needing sleep made more sense to him than any lordly meetings ever could.

"We'll be seated with houses Dondarrion and Penrose tonight at dinner. Why don't you go see if they need a hand in the forges until then?" Davos knew him well.

Gendry nodded, "Thanks," he mumbled as he lowered his torso under a beam and passed the Onion Knight beneath a large ash tree to the north of the stable walls.

"Lad?" Davos called to him as he walked. Gendry stopped and turned to face him, "Make sure you wash up before you find us. Soot on your face once might make you a hard worker, but twice makes you a slob."

He smiled and nodded before continuing towards the sound of hammers singing against steel.

...

**Arya**

Even winter in King's Landing was too warm. The night air brought her some comfort, but each touch of wind carried the lingering scent of death and ash; she wished it would carry the smell of sea or snow or steel - anything but fire and blood.

Arya was crouched upon the roof somewhere above the east wing of the armory. She had managed to climb up here just in time to watch the sun finish its descent into the hills a few hours earlier, and now she wasn't sure she wanted to leave.

Today had been nearly unbearable - she had said goodbye to Jon before a ship took him to White Harbor, seen her closest and most beloved sibling for the last time. Knowing they would never be together again left a burning hole in her chest that refused to go away. This was her choice, and that made it infinitely worse.

She had trained in the yard with Needle until her legs cramped; the pain in her side stopped her breathing and her grip failed, but the ache remained. Stumbling through the mostly-abandoned armory and up the stairs, Arya hadn't been entirely sure where she was going. She passed piles of splintered training swords and broken chunks of mail, each bringing with it a worse memory. Syrio Forel, Beric Dondarrion's sacrifice, her father. When her blistered feet could take her no further, she climbed onto the window ledge and managed to pry herself up onto the roof, hooking her feet onto the exposed bricks in fear of winding up like Bran.

Syrio's memory sharp in her mind, she aimlessly practiced her balance upon the outer edges of the building until her legs cramped and she had one too many visions of herself splattered upon the cobblestones below.

None of it had helped her miss Jon any less.

The city was quieter than she expected, likely because of the massive drop in population after the Dragon Queen's attack.

A squirrel scurried off the roof and leapt to the nearest tree. Clamoring sounded behind it as someone climbed onto the roof quite ungracefully. Arya unsheathed Needle and spun to face the oncoming figure.

"Going to skewer me already?" _Gendry_.

"I might." She left her arm poised for show, but knew he would remain unperforated for now.

Arya wasn't sure how she felt about him approaching her here; she had assumed the heated interaction in the dragon pit would be their last. His words were harsh, but she was fully aware that people often lashed out to mask their pain. Gendry had expected her to come back to him, she was sure of it. He had convinced himself that she would finish her list, hang up her weapons, and prance back to him to be the Lady of Storm's End. Anger would be easier than rejection, especially for a man who had just been handed one of the great regions of the Seven Kingdoms.

"How did you find me?" She asked when she was sick of waiting for him to stop looking like a fool.

"Easily. You're not as mysterious as you think."

Arya rolled her eyes and sat back down to wedge herself within a crenel. Gendry approached her slowly, as if he really thought she might leap up and slit his throat.

"Did you need something?" She hadn't intended to sound so resentful, but it was probably for the best.

"Didn't see you at dinner," Gendry answered as he lowered himself to lean against the broad side of one of the merlons she was propped between.

"Didn't go." He didn't need to know she had skipped the meal to fight the air until her sweat mingled with the tears that hadn't left her eyes since bidding Jon farewell.

Gendry pulled a small bag across his body. _No wonder he was so loud getting onto the roof_, Arya realized. He removed a flagon of ale and a fabric bundle, which he tossed to her gently. She caught it easily and unwrapped it to reveal half a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a few slabs of cured meat.

"Can't kill people or sail the seas if you starve," he mumbled before unsealing the ale and taking a large gulp.

She met his blue eyes tentatively, scanning them for the emotions he had thrown at her just the day before. He smiled in return for just a moment, then looked away sheepishly when he realized her gaze was more interrogative than grateful.

Satisfied, she tore a piece of the loaf and ripped the meat apart sloppily, smashing it with the cheese onto the bread and shoving the mess into her mouth. She offered Gendry the remainder, but he shook his head and stuck out a hand to stop her. The bread was fresh and the meat was deliciously salted. Training had made her hungrier than she realized.

"Well," her voice had taken back the bossy tone she used only with him. Arya willed it to flatten, "You've completed your mission. No use in perching up here all night." She twisted to face him so he might see she was serious.

His face looked beaten for a moment but he did not budge. He picked up the ale and passed it to her without drinking again. She took it and drank greedily, grateful for the feeling of liquid coating her burning throat.

"Gendry," she started. He wasn't supposed to be up here with her - he wasn't supposed to be kind and bring her food and ale or look so comely in his new clothing.

He didn't let her finish her thought.

"I couldn't just let things finish the way they were."

She swallowed another swig of ale and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before handing him back the container. They sat there in silence, occasionally passing back the drink. Her right leg dangled over the edge of the building and sent a rhythmic swoosh into the night. They spent the next hour like that: _swoosh_, drink, breathe, _swoosh_, swallow, breathe, _swoosh_, pass, glance, _swoosh_, breathe, pass, _swoosh_, drink, breathe, _swoosh_….

Arya broke the pattern first.

"I told them," she said quietly.

"And?"

She shrugged - her siblings had taken the news well. Bran had been, well, Bran - or at least Bran as he was today and not as he was when she left home for the first time. Sansa had teared up for a moment before sniffling and nodding quietly; she knew her sister too well to try to change her mind. Jon had seemed almost proud, wiping away her tears and pulling her in for a hug that stopped the world. Just replaying the events in her mind singed the edges of the pain that wouldn't leave her heart. Arya blinked back tears as she reached for the ale even though their pattern indicated it was time for a breath rather than a drink.

"You don't have to leave them," Gendry said softly. "You don't have to leave everyone you love."

Arya closed her eyes and rested her head against the stone. He was making this much harder than it needed to be.

"It's better this way," she finally responded, her eyes still shut.

"I'm done trying to stop you," _Finally… _"but you should know this isn't noble.

Noble. What was noble, anyways? The word always brought images of her father to mind, a man plagued by duty and honor. Nobility had cost Ned Stark his head; it had cost Robb his wife and kingdom; it had cost the Starks their entire family. Still, there was something appealing about the notion, something that drew her in like a fish to a gleaming hook.

She heard Gendry sip from the container again.

"I'm just trying to say that a lot of us are better with you here."

She blinked open her eyes but kept them focused in front of her. He was wrong, she knew that much for certain.

"No you aren't."

"Now who's being melodramatic?" He was almost as affected by the ale as she was, Arya realized; she could hear his stupid grin as he spun her words back on her even without looking at him.

"I'm being serious." Her voice rose in pitch with her defensiveness but she didn't care enough to fix it.

"You saved the entire realm just four moonturns ago but now you think everyone is better off without you?" Arya willed herself not to turn to face him. She had no desire to speak with him on this. He could go ride off to Storm's End and talk to the crashing waves if he wanted, surely they would be more willing to converse.

Someone dropped something made of glass in the courtyard below and Arya's hand flew to Needle. The horrors of Daenerys' burning of the city flashed before her eyes - children and mothers burnt together, gutted men and bloodied women, crashes of stone and metal… but this was just a drunken mistake. Two men laughed and swore and went on with their night.

She studied her surroundings until she was certain she could loosen her grip. This was why she had to leave - she couldn't be ready to slit the throat of everyone who startled her, especially now that more things startled her than ever had before.

Arya turned to look at Gendry for a moment - had he seen her lapse in judgement?

His neck was twisted as he eyed her worriedly. Mercifully, he stayed quiet.

They sat in silence again, though this time no one reached for the ale resting between them. Arya imagined they must look quite dramatic, silently looking to the horizon with their backs perpendicular against the same merlon; she might have laughed if she had the energy.

"I could go with you, you know," Gendry broke the silence after a while, "Give Davos Storm's End and sail off with you to find what's West."

His offer dug at the same hole left by Jon's farewell earlier that day.

"No," Arya breathed as she shook her head. "You deserve this." She felt his head spin towards her and knew he had interpreted her words more harshly than they had been intended, "you deserve to be a lord. You deserve to be celebrated and loved by your people."

"I told you back in Winterfell, none of it means anything without you." This was worse than his anger. She swallowed hard and suddenly wished she could guzzle the ale to avoid answering him.

"Of course it does. You're the Lord of the Stormlands now. One of the youngest lords paramount in the six kingdoms, after Robin Arryn, I suppose."

"I don't want it without you. These meetings Davos has been dragging me to have been more boring than a forge or a ship could ever be." Her heart skipped momentarily; she breathed deeply and tried to steady it. More of her than she'd like to admit wanted to accept his offer - to welcome him aboard her ship, fall asleep beside him every night, and have him with her on every adventure. But that would be selfish. With her he'd be bound to a life of nothingness, of sleepless nights kept awake by her terrors and an inability to stay in one place without the memories of those she'd killed following her. He deserved better; he deserved happiness.

"I can't let you do that. You're going to be a wonderful lord with a perfect lady and a happy region."

"Not without you."

She turned her body to face him. "Yes without me," she urged.

"Arya," there was a sense of warning in his voice, like he was about to say something they'd both regret, "I'm not just being dramatic. It doesn't matter without you. I don't want some lady in silk dresses, I don't want a castle, I don't want to have people tending to my every need - I just want you. I love you." He looked as though he might say more but stopped himself.

"No you don't," The moon bathed his face in blue light and highlighted the heartbreaking fall of his features as she spoke. "You love the idea of me - you love what you want me to be, not who I actually am."

"Then who are you?" She might as well have stabbed him when he first appeared. It would certainly have been less painful.

Arya looked him over once more, surprised by the feeling of hot tears rising up at his question. She shut her eyes tightly - she wouldn't cry in front of him.

"You think I don't know that you've killed people? We've all done it. We just finished a war, for fuck's sake."

She kept her eyes closed but shook her head.

_Not like me_, she'd have replied if her voice weren't fighting off a painful lump as she willed herself not to cry.

Gendry whispered her name with concern and gently placed his hand over hers. Maybe she hadn't been successful at masking her tears after all. She ought to just tell him, she reasoned; mayhap once he knew what she was capable of he'd let her go.

Arya opened her eyes and angled her body towards him. She let his hand remain over hers and reveled in the warmth for a moment - she could excuse one selfish moment in a night of pushing away a man she wanted more than most other things in life.

"I killed a little girl, innocent and trusting." She said, forcing herself to look him in the eye as she spoke.

"No you didn't," Gods, was he even listening to her?

"I did. She trusted me and I killed her." She could still picture the girl's twisted face as she smiled and accepted the poisoned drink.

"Why?"

"She was suffering. Her father couldn't bear it anymore and asked for the Many-Faced-God's help." Why hadn't she just said "because they told me to" and left it at that?

Gendry raised an eyebrow, wordlessly pointing out what she already knew.

"I killed an entire house." His face didn't flinch.

"I know. Everyone heard about the Freys," His hand shifted upon hers and for a moment she thought he was going to finally let go. Instead he just twisted her wrist gently to allow his fingers the room to intertwine with hers. "Everyone also heard that the women and children miraculously survived the fate of the men."

That was true, she hadn't killed the women or children. They were innocent and had likely suffered enough being a part of that dreadful family.

"I fed a man his own children. Killed Lothar and Black Walder separately; chopped them to bits, hacked at their bones and butchered them like a swine. Then I cooked them into a pie and fed it to Walder Frey before I slit his throat." It had felt poetic in the moment, feeding the man who had killed her family his own sons, just as the Rat Cook had back in the Nightfort in Old Nan's story. Revenge was an addictive haze, it let you break bones and take lives as though they were nothing. Now, with revenge decidedly behind her, the memory revolted her.

Gendry's face faltered with that story. _Good_, she thought, _run back to the Stormlands._

He did not run. His hand stayed laced with hers as he considered her words.

"Did you eat the pie?"

"No." She was disgusted at the question.

"A taste for human flesh might have come in handy on your journeys at sea, you know." Was he joking about this? Gods, he was a fool.

"It's not funny," she insisted, pulling her hand from his.

"So that's it? You killed a terrible house in a slightly gruesome way but left their innocents alive? And you ended a sick child's life? Seven Hells, any of these bastards have done worse," he swung his arm out to gesture to the city beyond them.

"I would have killed Cersei Lannister. I knew she was pregnant, but I still wanted to," she had spent a lot of time imagining that one. "Would have done it, too, if Sandor hadn't gotten me to leave the Red Keep."

His eyes flickered sadly across her face and she realized he didn't know she had been in the midst of it all.

"Not a soul in all of Flea Bottom that wouldn't have done the same," he finally answered.

"Killed Meryn Trant, too. Made him suffer and enjoyed every second of it." That might have been worse than the pie. She had stabbed and sliced and blinded sadistically; some part of her still felt joy at the memory.

She could tell Gendry had no idea who she was talking about.

"I'm sure you had your reasons." Arya didn't like this. He was going to rationalize and excuse everything she said. He didn't know how she'd done it, he didn't know the rush she felt as his blood sprayed onto her face. "Are you going to tell me you feel bad for killing the Night King, now? I ended a hundred thousand walking corpses, Gendry," he said, imitating the flatness of her voice.

She felt her brow furrow at his mockery. "Should have ended yours instead." Why was she joking? He always did this to her, made her joke and tease like the world wasn't the nightmare it truly was. He chuckled and she didn't fight the warmth that spread from his smile, warmth that traveled to the hole digging in her heart and filled it in a little.

He glanced at how close she was to the edge of the roof before cautiously approaching her. A calloused hand rose gently to her left cheek. "You think these things make people afraid of you?" he asked. "Maybe they should, but they don't. Not for me. So you can slit throats and throw daggers - I like that. You protect your family; you protected me when you had no reason to; you protected Hot Pie and Lommy, too. That's what wolves do - they kill to keep their pack safe." She hated him for mentioning wolves, but she hated him more for being right. "Jon, Sansa, Bran, me - we all love you because you're a wolf, not in spite of it."

Her gut burned with conflict, the hot liquid of Gendry's assurances warming the icy hole of never seeing her family again. It overflowed when he slowly brought his lips to hers.

She kissed him back, wishing her mouth might weave him a tapestry to explain her turmoil. Could a kiss convey that she yearned to be with him while staying firm that she had made up her mind about leaving?

Their kissing was slow and cautious, as if they both thought the other might stop and run if they moved too fast.

Arya placed her hand upon his face, mirroring his own, and used the other to pull him closer by gently pushing the back of his head towards her. He angled his face and kissed her more fully, slowly meeting her tongue with his. It would have been perfect, if she didn't already know exactly how it would end.

She mustered all of her self-control to drop her arms and force herself back away from him, nearly tilting off the roof to do so.

"Gendry," Arya was surprised to find her voice low and in her throat. "We shouldn't. It's not a good idea." She slid back into the crenel she had been wedged into before, facing him now.

His eyes cleared and he nodded.

"In case it wasn't obvious, I think it's the best idea we've ever had," he said with a smile as he sat back down on the broad side of the same merlon again. He picked up the ale and took a long drink before passing it back to her.

This was stupid. Arya knew exactly what she wanted to do - she wanted to keep kissing him on that roof, wanted to drag him to her room to fuck and be fucked. But such desires were selfish and unfair to Gendry. He'd be a willing partner, she knew he would, but it would only hurt him in the end. She settled for the ale instead, disappointed to realize they had already had more than half of it.

Kissing him had unlocked things in her that ought to be ignored. She knew she had carnal desires the same as anyone else, but this was overwhelming. Just a few kisses made her flash back to their night on the grain sacks - the feeling of his hands and mouth touching places she had previously only enjoyed herself when alone in the dead of the night, the glorious feeling of him inside her, the - _Stop_, Arya commanded herself. Still, it was difficult to ignore the tingling warmth spreading through her lower abdomen. She passed him the ale again and wrapped her arms around her knees to stop herself from reaching out and touching him.

Gendry's sapphire eyes kept meeting hers as she struggled not to look at him. She felt her face flush and tried to convince herself it was from the ale and not what she wanted to do.

"You leave tomorrow?" He asked her. She tried to ignore the rough quality of his voice.

"At first light in four days' time," she corrected. He nodded as if he had learned the information long ago and only briefly forgotten.

"So, three more nights?" He arched his brows in a way that told Arya drink had made him bold. She was helpless to stop the smirk she felt rising without her permission. "Why exactly is this a bad idea?" He knew. He knew she wanted nothing more than to lie with him for the rest of her time on this cursed continent.

"It will make it harder," she responded, surprised with the even quality of her voice.

"So our options are to stare at one another for a few days before you sail off, or to spend three perfect days together before you do the same?"

Arya sighed and hugged her legs closer to her torso. Part of her wanted desperately to give in, to cross the meter between them both and end this foolish game. She refused to listen to that part and instead chose to ignore him and turn her face up towards the moon; the light it cast was nearly blinding, beautiful and whole as it illuminated the night.

Gendry passed her the ale again; she was beginning to like the lightness it brought to her head with each swallow. It was nearly empty as she handed it back to him, lingering as her fingers grazed his.

She watched as he swallowed the liquid. She was transfixed. The sharpness of his cheekbones and the slight stubble upon his face and below his chin, the movement of the protuberance of his throat, it all made her stomach turn in the most sickeningly delightful way. He caught her staring again and grinned foolishly for a moment before handing her the mostly-empty flagon. His rough fingertips brushed hers and she was certain it was intentional.

Arya drained the last of the ale and stood up quite quickly.

"Where are you going?" Gendry asked her. He seemed just as unwilling to part as she felt.

"We're out of ale." She could feel the start to a wicked smile pulling at her lips.

He grabbed her wrist to stop her as she passed him. She could have easily stood steadily or pulled her arm away; instead she let herself tumble forward. It was a dangerous game this far above the ground, but Arya knew precisely where she'd land. She laughed heartily for a moment before looking at the man before her. His lids seemed heavy as he stared into her, both large hands resting where he had caught her at the small of her waist.

She couldn't help herself any longer.

She pushed her face upon his and kissed him excitedly. He was less reserved as he returned the motion now, hungrily pushing her body against his own. It took mere seconds for her to swing her right knee out over his leg to straddle him as they kissed. His hands roamed her back, her neck, her hips - every touch made her feel a little more alive.

Arya tried to graze his torso but the leathers were too tight. She found the ties below the base of his neck and undid them quickly, tugging at the sides of his jerkin until it was loose enough to pull over his head. Once free, she found herself more excited than ever as her hands explored every ripple of his muscular torso.

Gendry's lips traveled from her mouth to her neck, kissing and biting and sucking upon everything he could. She rolled her hips above his and ground against the excitement she could feel building beneath his clothing. He had already unlaced her leather doublet and worked now to push it from her shoulders. Once it was off, he slipped his warm hands beneath her smallclothes. For a moment, he enjoyed touching her skin and waist, but then stopped abruptly and looked at her quite seriously.

"You're hurt," he whispered in shock as he gently raised the fabric of her blue linen undershirt to see the bandages wrapped below her breasts and around her upper torso. "We shouldn't be doing this," he muttered, leaning his head back against the stone merlon to stop himself from kissing her mid-sentence.

"It's just a broken rib," Arya assured him as she roughly pulled his face back to hers. Gendry looked skeptical and mildly disappointed - not because they had stopped, but because she brushed aside her injury so casually. "The maester said it's nearly healed." That was all he needed to hear; he kissed her slowly for a moment, then greedily tugged her shirt from over her head and lowered his face to her breasts. She grasped at his newly-grown hair as his tongue swirled gasp-inducing patterns along her chest.

Arya began unlacing the ties of his fine leather pants, lifting herself slightly to allow him the room to rise from the ground and slide them and the thin underlying trousers past his knees in one motion. He kept a hand on the small of her back to keep as much of her pressed to him as he could.

She smirked at the feeling of his hands finding the similar laces on her own thin leather bottoms, which he removed with the same urgency he had shown his own. His rough fingers found her crux and traced patterns she couldn't make out until she felt she might faint with need. As amazing as his hands were, she needed more.

Arya kissed him again, then ground against his hardened length, strengthening herself with each shortened breath. She ached with the need to feel him within her, not just to slip and grind over him.

Gendry sensed her desire - or maybe he was just as lusty himself - and used his hand to bring himself in line with her entrance. She shifted upwards and then took him in, slowly lowering herself upon him with a gasp that swallowed the moans he whispered into her lips. She leveraged her weight by pressing against his shoulders and rolling her hips forward as she lowered herself back down. He rose against her, kissing her as he filled her more deeply and met her walls with each rough buck of their hips. When her tired legs started to give out, she wrapped them around him and rocked back and forth, letting him do the work of moving in and out.

It felt better than she remembered - was it like this last time? Arya felt that warmth, the same warmth she sometimes felt in dreams of flesh and need, rise up and take control. It didn't take long for the heat to spiral out into a euphoric sensation that made her cry out against his shoulder. She breathed heavily as he kept moving within her; her hands found any part of his body she could reach, defined arms and broad shoulders, a strong chest, a back widened from years of smithing. Her left hand acted without direction, cupping his face and making him look at her. After avoiding his gaze since his arrival in King's Landing, she reveled in the way he looked at her now - the lids of his eyes were weighted by lust and she felt him slow down as he looked back at her. She inhaled sharply at a particularly deep thrust, and he broke their staring with a frantic kiss.

He met his own end shortly after, grunting out words she couldn't quite understand against her neck before embracing her again and panting softly. She gripped him back and let her fingers dance across his sweat-dampened back.

Gendry regained his composure slowly, breathing a little deeper with each breath. He was still inside her, and she curiously pushed against him again. His head snapped up to look at her. She did it again, enjoying the power she felt in the moment, and raised her brow to make sure he knew. He closed his eyes and groaned, then placed both hands on her waist to peel her off of him. It was easy to forget Gendry's strength, but the ease with which he moved her entire body reminded her that his gentleness was a choice.

She wished she had a cloth to wipe the remainder of his seed that was about to escape her now that he had withdrawn, but there was none to be found. She pulled on her pants instead and knew she'd need to wash them. He did the same, then gently lead her to lean against him.

Arya wondered how bizarre they must look, naked from the waist up, her with a large bandage wound around half her torso, love drunk on the roof of an armory. She didn't care. This felt right.

Gendry was staring at her again, she could feel the burn of is gaze upon her face. She slowly turned to see him looking as though he had just heard some joke she had missed.

"What?" She asked, feeling almost defensive.

"Do you think we'll ever do this in an actual bed?" She understood the joke now - they had lain together on bags within the archery section of Winterfell's armory, on an unused forge, and now on a roof, but never on a bed.

"Lord for a month and you already require a featherbed?" She teased as she grabbed the wrist of the arm he had wrapped around her. He chuckled softly and rolled his eyes. "I've never cared for featherbeds," she said aimlessly, "They're too soft."

Gendry nodded in agreement.

"Give me the ground any day." She knew that wasn't quite true, she had enjoyed her bed in Winterfell. It was stuffed with wool rather than feathers, and lined with furs.

"Or some grain sacks?" Arya nodded mischievously and rolled her body to be able to kiss him fully.

"I'm not sleeping up here," Gendry told her when they separated. She smiled at him, realizing that the sorrowful hole that had burned at her all day was hardly a bruise now.

She rose quickly and dressed in her clothing, half-heartedly lacing them just enough to stay on long enough to get to whichever room was closest. She had to lace Gendry's fancy leather jerkin for him; she wasn't sure how she felt about the fact he now had clothing so nice he required others to help him wear it.

He pulled her to him for another kiss, this one gentler than the others, then put the empty flagon and wrapped food she had discarded back into his bag. Arya slid her way down into the window and laughed heartily at Gendry's clumsy attempt to do the same.

His room was closer, just a few minutes' walk to the northeast. It was only as long as the door took to close before she was on him again, removing his clothing and pulling him onto his precious bed.

They hardly slept that night; occasionally they drifted off in the comfort of one another's arms, but one would always wake the other with a kiss or a well-positioned grind of the hips.

...

If they could have, Arya was sure they would have spent the remainder of her time in Westeros like this. But, Gendry had meetings and she had maps to study and a sister to say goodbye to.

The next night, she spent dinner trying to catch his eye to make sure he knew she'd find him after they had finished their days. It was easy to distract him, fun to watch him fight off the lustful thoughts she could bring on with a mere flicker of her brow.

Arya waited for him in his room, already naked and ready. He came in an hour after she had entered; a massive grin overtook his face when he saw her and he crossed the entire length of the room in three long strides, not bothering to lock his door before frantically grabbing at his own clothes.

That night, she dreamt of crowds of wights cornering her in the hall; she could not escape. She finally burst through a a door to safety, only for it to crumble upon her in ash and flame. All around, people burned and screamed and bled. Arya reached for them, but they only clawed at her with vicious, undead rage. She couldn't breathe - the ash was too much for her lungs and the dead were approaching again. She tried to slither through a hole in the rocks towards light and made it halfway there. The other side was worse. Burnt skeletons smoked in the ruins: Jon, Sansa, Bran, Gendry, Nymeria. She did not know how she knew it was them, but somehow the bones were as identifiable as their faces. She sobbed a terrible croak at the sight of them, then felt the dead coming for her again. The rocks around her shifted and she could not move. A tiny hand grabbed for her foot - she did not need to see her to know it was the little girl who had died with the wooden horse. The corpses began pulling at her, tearing at her skin and pulling her legs in opposite directions.

She awoke with a gasp as Gendry stared at her in the mostly-dark room. He brushed the hair from her eyes and kissed her forehead gently, then pulled her close to him. Tears engulfed her eyes and she couldn't keep from weeping. The terrors of her dream had filled her with a strange feeling as though she had really been there; her heart was beating too fast and she felt her body tremor as it had when she emerged from the canals of Braavos after being stabbed. Arya knew her mind was playing tricks on her, but could not stop the physical reactions.

Gendry stroked her hair gently and whispered reassurances against her scalp. After far too long, her heart began to slow. Feelings slowly returned - his arm around her, the draft from the window, a soreness in her eyes.

She wriggled her body up towards Gendry's face and stared at him for a moment. They wouldn't talk about this, but Arya at least hoped he'd understand. Surely he must have his own share of terrifying mind games enacted by a cruel brain. His rough hand moved from he back of her head to her right cheekbone and traced it softly.

"I love you." The words slipped out of her mouth before she had even processed them. She wanted to take them back, to tell him she hadn't meant it that way and that she was just grateful he was there, but that seemed cruel.

Did she love him? Arya hadn't taken the time to think about it fully. She supposed she did - it didn't matter anyway.

Gendry's eyes widened and softened with delighted surprise. "And I you," he whispered.

They kissed lazily for a few minutes until they finally felt sleep come for them again. Arya held his hand in hers as she drifted off to more pleasant dreams.

...

They spent the third day the same way - taking care of their own responsibilities for as long as they could during the day (though they once snuck off to a nearby store room when they passed in a corridor).

That night, they both skipped dinner to be together for as long as they could. Each time got better and better with every instance, each session building upon what they had learned previously.

But even the joy of frequent sex could not buffer the weight of her final night. Their lovemaking had been slower and more emotional than the others; neither could drive the fact they may never see one another from their minds.

They laid intertwined in his bed, his arms wrapped around her and her legs weaved through his; her face was pressed into his chest with only just enough room to breathe. He periodically squeezed her tighter to him and kissed the top of her head. Neither had said a single word since she had walked into his room two hours earlier. It was a strange feeling, knowing she would be sailing off to unknown lands in a few hours. _You might die_, she reminded herself again. If she ever returned to Westeros, he would almost certainly be married - he would likely be a father to many beautiful black haired babes by then.

Honor was shit. Leaving him behind so he could have that life was the honorable thing to do, but so much of her wanted to grab his face and tell him to come with her. He would, she had no doubts of that, and that was why she couldn't ask. He had already offered twice, once even in the middle of fighting with her after not seeing her for months. Gendry was a good man and good men deserved good lives.

Her throat ached like she might cry again. _Gods, when did I get so emotional?_ She chastised herself in her mind. She couldn't let him see her like that, not after he had already seen her at her weakest after her terrifying dream the night before.

"You know, we would spend every day like this if you came to Storm's End."

Arya hated him for saying that. She stiffened in his arms and moved her head from the warm comfort of his chest to tilt it upwards enough to glare at him. We wouldn't, she reminded herself. "I'm not asking you again, don't worry. I just want you to remember what you said no to," there was mischief in his voice. "and what you'll come back to when you're done."

She separated herself from him and he reached towards her to stay touching. Sitting up slowly, she looked at him for a moment. He was naked - he had been for nearly all of their time together these past few days. His body was just as impressive as it had been the first time she'd seen it fully, even more so than it had been when they were young in Harrenhal. She drank him in, eyeing him from toe to head before she got up to pour them each a glass of wine.

"I might not come back, you know that." She handed him his goblet and he sat up against the headboard to drink it.

"Might not means you might."

Arya rolled her eyes at his stubborn smirk. "It could be years," he shrugged, "decades, even."

"I'll wait."

She glared at him.

"You will not."

Gendry took a long drink and met her eyes without looking away; he was being serious.

"If I _do_ come back and learn that you've waited for me, I swear to the old gods and the new that I will slit your throat myself."

"I don't doubt that."

She sat on the edge of the bed, intentionally just out of his reach. The wine was sour and tannic against her tongue.

"I mean it. Don't wait for me. Live your life as you deserve to. Find a wife, make a family." He looked more miserable with each word.

Gendry did not argue with her, he only drank more of the wine and closed the distance between them, moving her hair to kiss the side of her neck.

She leaned back into him and tried to ignore the very real possibility that he would do this to his future wife. Arya supposed she would do this with another man some day, too, but that seemed a lifetime away. She had no desire for other men, no dreams of anyone taking Gendry's place.

They only slept long enough for him to recover enough for a third, fourth, and fifth round. Arya had never heard of anyone lying together that many times in one night, but she supposed they couldn't be the first.

...

Dawn arrived too soon, and the distance from his bed to her clothing felt farther than that between King's Landing and Winterfell. Gendry rose while she dressed and rummaged in his bag for a moment before pulling out something long and metallic.

"Davos said you'd need this," he murmured as he placed it before her. It was a spyglass made of gold.

"Davos knows I'm sailing West?" Arya asked. Gendry's ears darkened as he nodded awkwardly, likely realizing he was making it obvious that he had talked about her with his advisor and friend.

"Thank him for me," she said with a smile before taking the instrument from him and tucking it into her belt.

They walked in together to the docks, exchanging a few glances but no words. Each step brought dull shots of pain between her legs from their many unions the night before, but she ignored the discomfort; it had been worth today's pain.

"No questioning which is yours," Gendry remarked when he saw her ship. It was quite massive, and featured a telltale direwolf figurehead.

"The sails have them too," she said gleefully.

They stepped down the ramps to the planks leading directly to her vessel. Gendry grabbed her wrist. It was early enough that there were few others on the docks, though Arya wasn't sure that would have mattered to them anyways. He pulled her close and kissed her just as deeply as he had in the dark these past few blissful nights. She returned his kiss and tried not to think of it as the last time.

"Do you want to see the ship?" She asked. He stood awkwardly stiff and did not follow. "Gendry?"

His blue eyes stared into her so intensely she instantly felt her own eyes begin to burn.

"If I get on that ship, I'm not getting back off." Arya loved him for recognizing that. Truth be told, if he had asked to come with her again she might truly have allowed it.

She nodded in understanding.

"Be safe m'lady." He hadn't called her that in ages. She smiled at him, sure he was referencing their old memories, and he smiled back at her. Breathing felt more strenuous than usual as she stepped towards him again for a final kiss. It was harder than she'd like to admit. She finally pulled her lips away from his and placed her hand over the one with which he cupped her face. He kissed her again, then nodded and stepped back from her. Arya squeezed his hand with her own before turning and walking up to the ship. She could not turn around to look at him again, lest she sprint down to be by his side and never leave.

The ship was just as she had left it the day before; a crew prepared _Nymeria_ for her first voyage, uncoiling ropes and verifying rations. She unlocked her stateroom and set down Davos' gift upon the maps spread across the table.

Something glinted in the corner of her eye and she walked over to inspect it. Lying upon her bed was a beautiful weapon, a steel version of the multipurpose dragonglass weapon Gendry had made her in Winterfell.

The two pieces still slid and twisted into one another seamlessly, but this was far more elaborate. One blade had a tiny golden stag embellished upon it, and the other had a dragonglass silhouette of a bull's head. She smiled at his arrogance - he had really put his own markers on _her_ weapon - before gaping at the center. The middle of the double-sided spear was an exquisite wolf, its metal fur and head serving as a grip that was doubtless intended as an additional method of attack.

There was a piece of parchment behind it. "_I'd say I hope you don't need this, but we both know you'll find a reason to use it._" was scratched in penmanship barely better than that of a child. Arya felt a rush of every feeling she had experienced in the past few hours surge up into her chest.

She ran up to the deck to try to catch Gendry and thank him, but he was no longer in sight.

"Captain," a gruff voice spoke beside her. It was the man she had contracted to run her crew. "We'll be departing in a moment if you're ready."

Arya scanned the docks one last time, then turned to the man and nodded. She would find what was West, and if the gods were very, very kind, she might one day return to Westeros to tell the tale.


End file.
